


All for One

by Richefic



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis and Porthos are determined to show Athos he is a good man, Athos thinks he doesn't deserve to be happy, Bromance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related Tags, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scenes, Spoilers for the whole of Season One, There will be a happy ending, Treville takes care of his boys, d'Artagnan gradually gets a clue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-02-13 21:09:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 123,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2165319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Richefic/pseuds/Richefic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos tries to deal with the repercussions of Anne's reappearance in his life, whilst his brothers try to convince him he is a good man.</p>
<p>Not a romance, but a tale of missing scenes, angst, hurt/comfort, humour and brotherly love as a route to eventual healing.</p>
<p>Will include reference to every episode, with missing scenes and the occasional tangent along the way for added angst, hurt/comfort, humour and bromance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tag to Friends and Enemies

**Author's Note:**

> This started as my thoughts on what might have happened between S1 e9 and S1 e10 and grew into an bit of an epic spanning the whole series and beyond. And as an excuse for the others to coddle Athos as much as they can get away with!

Athos was alive.

In the weak winter light Aramis looked over at the face of his sleeping friend. His arm felt numb where it rested underneath Athos' shoulders. On the other side he could see Porthos curled on his side, one large hand resting lightly on Athos' chest so it rose and fell with each breath. Aramis grimaced as he realised Porthos head was an angle that would give him a crick in his neck which he would probably be complaining about for days to come. Deciding to take pity on his friend, he kicked him softly, so that he came awake with a snort, rubbing at his neck and cracking a massive yawn.

"Athos needs to buy a bigger bed," He declared tiredly. "Or better still, stop this kind of nonsense."

"You couldn't have carried him back to my lodgings?" Aramis asked, as he shifted trying to find a more comfortable position on the hard wooden floor. "We could have all fitted into my bed. And I own more than one chair."

"Next time you can carry 'im home," Porthos responded. "Besides, I didn't know, did I? I just thought he needed to sleep it off."

Aramis propped himself up on one elbow so he could take a better look at their patient. Athos' dark lashes stood out starkly against his too pale face. Deep smudges under his eyes stood testament to his complete exhaustion. Beneath his shirt, his body was battered and bruised. Each wrist was carefully wrapped in clean linen bandages.

"Almost lunchtime and he's finally sleeping," He observed, gently brushing a sweat soaked curl from Athos' brow. "It's a good thing Treville isn't expecting any of us to report for duty today."

"The Captain's a good man," Porthos agreed. "And a wise one, he knows Athos' true nature better than most."

On first meeting Athos could seem arrogant, even rude. But his friends knew this was simply a way of safeguarding his feelings. Despite his best efforts at being moody and unapproachable Athos found it impossible to hide his fierce loyalty and inherent kindness. He was also a man who felt injustice keenly and his own disgrace would be an open wound for some time yet.

"Despite present appearances," Aramis managed a rueful smile. "Things are not as nearly as bad as they used to be."

"That's true enough," Porthos had to agree. "It was months before he could endure our touch without flinching, longer still before he actually would actually accept our comfort, although, that first time we shared a bed that was actually his idea."

"Athos has always put others welfare before he own," Aramis remarked. "You had almost drowned and I had been chilled to the bone going in after you. Apart from the fact we were both freezing with only two full sets of dry clothes between the three of us, he was afraid to let us out of his sight."

"We should have known he was hurtin'," Porthos looked guilty. "He hasn't drunk that much or took himself off alone to do it like that in a long time."

"We did know he was hurting," Aramis reminded him. Not even a man as stoic as Athos could face a firing squad without some ill effects. An honourable death in battle was one thing, staring down the barrel of a musket as you wait for death to claim you for crimes you did not even commit was quite another. "We just didn't know how much."

After Aramis had found Adele not at home he had been debating a return to the tavern when Porthos had sent word that he should come to Athos' lodging with all haste. Aramis had expected to be called upon to patch up the bruised knuckles and sore ribs of a tavern brawl. He had not expected to find Pothos raging, his eyes flashing as he paced, his hands clenched into fists and the remains of a shattered bottle at the base of the wall evidence of his tenuous hold on his temper.

"Treville shall hear of this," Porthos had hissed, his tone tight with fury. "Someone must pay."

Athos had been sprawled on the bed in a drunken stupor. His weapons carefully placed on the table, boots placed neatly at the foot of his bed, jacket folded on a chair suggesting that Porthos had been in the process of putting him to bed when something had stayed his hand. As he approached Aramis felt his own anger building. Treville had insisted that Athos be placed in isolation due to the number of prisoners in the Chatelet who owned their incarceration to the musketeers. However, that had clearly not prevented the guards having their own petty revenge on a man they believed had disgraced his uniform.

There were no marks on his face. The guards were not that foolish. But his torso showed the clear marks of rough hands and violent blows. There was a boot print, a dammed boot print, in the middle of his chest. And his wrists were marked and cut by the manacles he had been forced to wear, the skin rubbed raw in a way that could only have happened if he had been pulled and dragged around like some animal. Aramis suddenly found it hard to breathe. No wonder Porthos was beside himself.

"I thought we was past this?" Porthos protested, appearing at his side. "Why would he keep this from us? Why would he not tell us?"

It had taken Aramis some moments before he could find his voice. He had sunk down onto the bed and taken one of Athos' lax hands into his own. Running his thumb over his knuckles he began to stir Athos into wakefulness. He needed to clean and wrap those wrists and he knew from experience that it was not a good idea to startle Athos' from sleep.

"Because I imagine he felt he deserved it." He remarked sadly.

They were all familiar with Athos' tendency to punish himself. He lived in this cold, bare, cell with only the barest of necessities. He had never taken a day's leave that wasn't caused by some injury. His only comfort was the company of his friends. He eschewed all other forms of entertainment. To Aramis' certain knowledge he had never pursued a relationship with any woman. Even his drinking seemed more like a penance than a pleasure. Isolated and alone it would have been difficult for Athos to believe he was worthy of the least kindness or consideration.

"Right then," Porthos had visibly gathered himself. "You tend to his wounds. I'll stoke up the fire and fetch us some blankets. I've got a feeling it's gonna be a long night."

Athos had held himself stiffly as Aramis had carefully cleaned his wounds and applied a healing salve, before gently wrapping up his wrists. Then Porthos had held a bowl and got him to take a few mouthfuls of broth, before they had spread the blankets out in front of the fire and tucked him in securely between them.

"Not a word," Aramis had chided, putting a finger across Athos' lips' when he saw him trying to raise a protest. "We're all going to have nightmares about this. We won't leave you to face yours alone."

Despite their comfort he had held out as long as his body would allow. Which given Athos' strength of will had turned out to be quite some time. Finally, he had slipped into oblivion, only to startle awake a short time later, his eyes wide and his brow clammy with sweat with those dreadful words on his lips.

"Shoot, damn you!"

After that it seemed that every ghost of his past was determined to torment him. He cried out for his brother Thomas, he begged his dead wife Anne for her forgiveness, he reached for the unseen figures of his mother and father, he cried silent tears for the time they had thought Porthos buried alive and clutched Aramis hand so tightly he though a bone might break, believing him lost in Savoy because they had not been there in time to save him.

"Nothing that suffers can pass without merit in the sight of God," Aramis quoted softly. "Athos, my friend, I think you have suffered more than enough for a whole legion of men."

"Why chose Athos?" Porthos asked suddenly.

"Hmm?" Aramis wasn't really listening.

"Gaudet could have picked any musketeer to discredit," Porthos sat up. "Why did he settle on Athos?"

"Athos is the finest soldier in the regiment," Aramis thought that was explanation enough. "Losing him would be a huge blow to morale."

"Maybe, someone should tell that to his Majesty," Porthos grumbled. "Five years of loyal service and the King did not even know who "this Athos" was that he was so keen to sentence to death."

"The Cardinal was particularly eager for Athos to be made an example of, now you mention it," Aramis recalled as he sat up in his turn, leaning back on his hands. "He was the one pressing for his execution."

"He might have done a bit of digging," Porthos looked pensive now, his brow furrowing. "If the Cardinal did have a hand in things he'd want to Treville brought as low as possible."

"Treville has always been particularly fond of Athos," Armais agreed. "Although, his eminence is not the kind of man to get his own hands dirty, he generally leaves the sordid details to his minions."

"Do you think it might have had something to do with Athos' past?" Porthos asked carefully.

"Unlikely." Athos' voice surprised them.

"Athos, my friend," Porthos looked a little guilty. "We thought you were sleeping."

"That would be far easier to do without the two of you going back and forth over my head like a tennis match," Athos moved to sit up, giving Aramis a grateful look in lieu of a nod for his assistance, unwilling for the moment to move his head more than strictly necessary, he settled back against the side of the bed. "What time is it?"

"About midday," Aramis supplied.

"Is there anything left to drink?"

"Don't you think you had enough last night?" Porthos frowned.

"Are we expected at the Garrison?"

"Not until tomorrow," Aramis assured him. "Treville said if you showed up before then he would personally revoke your commission."

"Then no, if we are to finish this conversation I shall need a drink," Athos rubbed a hand over his face. "There should be a bottle of brandy up there in the rafters."

"Why do you keep it up there?" Aramis wondered.

"It's a rather fine almanac. It deserves better than to be swigged back like a cheap house red. This way at those times I am drunk enough to consider reneging on that principle I am also too drunk to climb up and retrieve it."

"Fair enough."

Porthos climbed up to retrieve the bottle. Aramis set about finding some clean glasses. All three of them took a moment to have a quick wash in cold water and take their ease. At Aramis pointed look Athos also changed out of his sweat soaked shirt before he could become chilled. Whilst his back was turned Aramis and Porthos combined their coin until they had enough to purchase a decent meal.

"Thank you, but I'm not hungry." Athos shook his head, when Porthos returned and busied himself ladling the pot of stew into three bowls.

"Try just a little," Aramis encouraged. "You need to eat if you are to be fit for duty."

Athos rolled his eyes at him, knowing exactly what he was trying to do. Still his innate good manners roused him to make at least the appearance of eating. As he touched the spoon to his lips he was surprised at the soft, tender meat, the tang of woodland mushrooms and the crunch of perfectly sautéed onions, all in a rich, red wine sauce, augmented with herbs.

"This is the beef stew from the tavern d'Or," He realised, touched beyond measure that his friends had most likely put themselves into poverty for the next week to purchase his favourite meal just to tempt his non-existent appetite. He swallowed hard for even after five years their unthinking kindness could still catch him unawares. "Gentlemen, you didn't have to do this."

"We know that," Porthos smiled at him, as he took his own bowl and settled on the bed next to him. "We wanted to."

"You are worth every last sous, I do not think you can hear that too often," Aramis passed him a glass of brandy, before sitting down beside him with his own meal. "Although, I would count it as a personal favour if you would consider buying some more chairs."

"When I first came to live here I wished to discourage company." Athos replied honestly.

"Yeah?" Porthos grinned around a mouthful of stew as he butted his shoulder fondly. "How's that working out for you?"

"Better than I could have ever imagined," Athos smiled fondly.

"So, who do you think might have wanted to frame you," Porthos returned to their earlier conversation.

"Nothing comes to mind," Athos sighed. "I have never been particularly interested in court politics. I can think of no adversary who would have the power to orchestrate something like this. Deciding matters with the point of a sword is so much more straightforward."

"Only if you have the courage to face your opponent," Aramis pointed out. "Maybe, your adversary did not wish to be known."

"It would be a funny kind of revenge if no-one knows you're doing it," Porthos pointed out. "Are you sure it ain't somehow connected with the time before you became a musketeer?"

"I don't see how," Athos shook his head. "My parents are dead. My wife had no surviving family. Thomas was my only living relative. There is only me left."

"There was only you," Porthos corrected with a hint of steel as he gripped Athos' leg. "Now there's the three of us."

"And I thank God for it," Athos spoke very quietly. "I hope nothing I should ever say or do would lead you to think otherwise."

"Athos," Aramis slid a comforting arm around his shoulders. "You are our brother and we love you. No matter what lies behind or ahead, we will never forsake you."

"At least in Athos' case we don't have to worry about a woman scorned, eh?" Porthos joked, hoping to lighten the mood, only to quickly sober as Athos looked stricken and Aramis scowled at him. "Sorry," He apologised gruffly. "That was out of order, what with your wife being dead and all."

Athos briefly placed his hand over Porthos' in acceptance of his apology. He could not bring himself to meet his eyes. His friends knew that Thomas had been killed and that his wife was dead. He had not been able to bring himself to tell them that those two events were connected. Nor that Anne had died by his orders.

If God had any mercy he would take those secrets to his grave.

"Perhaps we should look closer to home," Aramis remarked. "A blood debt perhaps, a brother or son killed for their crimes, or one of the Cardinal's men who you've bested in a duel, in a position to whisper in his eminence's ear."

"That would be a pretty long list." Porthos commented.

"It is a plausible explanation," Athos sighed. His tendency not to hold back in a duel had embarrassed a number of the Cardinal's best men. "Perhaps, in a way I brought this on myself."

"You're not worried that it had anything to do with the boy?" Aramis frowned slightly. "Only you have rather been keeping him at arm's length?"

"No, his grief is sincere," Athos was sure of that. "He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Or the wrong place at the right time," Porthos allowed. "Seeing as he helped us clear your name and he's a fine a candidate for a musketeer as there could be. You should have seen 'im go after Gaudet. He was a right little terror."

"A talent like that would be wasted on a farm." Aramis observed lightly.

"You are wasting your breath, gentlemen," Athos scowled at them, not blind to their motives. "I am not looking for a protégé."


	2. Interlude (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos doesn't want a protege. Everyone else has other ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athos was in prison when Aramis and Porthos were getting to know d'Artagnan. He needs some time to get used to the idea. Because obviously you can't start taking someone you've never even met on missions which touch the security of the realm (ahem)

Athos' return to the Garrison did go at all as he expected.

They had spent the previous night at Aramis' lodgings, because, as his friend was swift to point out, it had all the comforts a home should have. Lulled by a warm fire, a fine meal, good brandy made by Aramis' father, and the company of friends, Athos had slept surprisingly well. The one time he startled awake, his heart racing and his breath coming in short gasps, he had not been alone, Porthos a steady presence at his back, Aramis quick to soothe with a gentle touch and reassuring words.

"Athos, look at me," Aramis placed a hand on either side of his face, his thumb rubbing lightly along his jaw, grounding him in the present. "We have you."

In the morning Athos dressed with more than usual care. Clean braies and stockings, a fresh pair of breeches, a newly laundered shirt, his boots buffed to a shine. Adding their silent support, Aramis had taken apart and cleaned his musket for him, then polished his sword and main gauche till they looked like new. Porthos had taken his jacket and wiped away every last residue of the Chatelet.

"You don't have to do this, you know," Porthos looked on, his brow furrowing, as Aramis cleaned and redressed Athos' damaged wrists. "No-one will think less of you if you take another couple of days."

"Treville is expecting us." Athos reminded him.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a quick glance. Neither man had missed the fact that Athos had not claimed to be fully recovered. Sometimes it was more important to listen for the things he did not say.

"These bandages must be kept clean and dry," Aramis fixed him with a look. "Or the wounds may become infected."

To Athos' surprise and his friend's clear amusement it took him several minutes to cross the courtyard and ascend the stairs to Treville's office. It seemed as if every man in the regiment had turned out to shake his hand, or pat him on the back. Entering Treville's office he had fully expected things to be business as usual, only to have Treville come around his desk, wearing a broad smile, to take his hand in a warm, firm, grip and pull him into a brief, hard, hug.

"Athos, welcome back."

Feeling utterly nonplussed, Athos could barely find the words to offer up his thanks. It did not help matters that he could clearly hear the stage whispered conversation between his two friends.

"Told you he was the Captain's favourite." Porthos sounded amused.

"Well, he is the finest soldier in the Regiment," Aramis mused. "His loss would be a great blow to us all."

"Gentlemen," Treville raised a mildly reproving brow at the pair of them. "You remember d'Artagnan?"

Athos head came up sharply. He had been so shocked by his warm reception by the ranks and Treville's affectionate greeting that he had not noticed the young Gascon lurking in the shadows. Now the young man stepped forward.

"He has expressed a desire to seek the King's commission to become a musketeer. Since I know Athos would never participate in an illegal duel I presume that was what the two of you were discussing the courtyard the other day?"

"Of course," Athos lied with a perfectly straight face. "The boy is promising but raw. If he can live long enough to learn from his mistakes he could do well."

"From Athos, that's high praise," Aramis translated cheerfully, for d'Artagnan's benefit. "Normally, he just tells those who turn up hoping to train as a musketeer to follow some other trade. He suggested the last one should become a blacksmith."

"He had strength and power and a degree of artistry, but lacked the presence of mind to keep his head in a fight." Athos defended his advice.

"It's been months since he told the Captain here that any of 'em were worth keeping." Porthos grinned.

"There is far more to becoming a King's musketeer than skill with a sword," Treville eyed d'Artagnan. "You must be accurate with a musket, be skilled in hand to hand combat, learn to think strategically under pressure and remain stoic but alert during what can be extremely long hours on parade."

"I can do that." D'Artagnan assured him with all the confidence of youth.

"And give your life in an instant if their Majesties are in danger?" Treville gave no ground.

"I would rather die a musketeer for something that matters than live a life of toil and strain like my father only to die a senseless death." D'Artagnan returned with quiet determination.

"S'a fine answer," Porthos said solidly, lending his support. "Ain't it, Athos?"

Athos' glare was one of his finest as he moved to lean against the wall and pointedly crossed his arms. He knew Treville was no man's fool. He doubted that it was simply a co-incidence that d'Artagnan had been awaiting them. He could see the glint in the man's eye which clearly said he was up to something.

"Gentleman," The Captain picked up a bundle of letters from the table and passed them to Aramis. "Your orders are to take these letters to the monastery at Mont St Michel, the monks will give you hospitality overnight, take your time. Paris is quiet at present and I would rather not have you three underfoot. It always seems to lead to trouble."

"So we carry the letters to the monastery, have a slap up feed, drink our fill, get a free bed for the night and make our way back to Paris in our own good time?" Porthos spoke up.

"So it appears." Athos' tone was expressionless.

"And the letters aren't in any way secret or some grave matter of state which will incur untold danger?" Aramis needed to be sure.

"Not this time," Treville sat back in his chair and looked directly at his brooding Lieutenant, making quite sure that he realised that his next words were an order. "Take d'Artagnan with you."

That brought Athos upright, almost to attention, his dark eyes burning with intensity.

"Me?" d'Artagnan lit up with joy.

"If you are serious about a career in soldering this is as good an opportunity as any to see if you have any aptitude for it," Treville allowed. "You will follow Athos' orders in all things."

"Yes sir," d'Artagnan nodded eagerly. "I will be glad to serve in any way possible."

"Captain," Athos' tone was stiffly formal. "Might I have a word in private?"

D'Artagnan found himself outside the door and moving down the stairs before he could blink, courtesy of Porthos' firm grip on his collar and Aramis' hand steering him by the shoulder.

"What's that about?" d'Artagnan scowled.

"S'not you," Porthos said kindly. "It's complicated."

"Complicated?" d'Artagnan raised a brow.

Aramis did not particularly want to explain that he did not understand it himself. D'Artagnan would thrive under Athos' patient tutelage. And Athos always seemed a little less burdened when he could help others. If nothing else the boy's rare talent with a blade should have been an irresistible draw. And d'Artagnan was loyal, brave and honest. Athos himself had admitted he had no reason for distrust. Yet he seemed determined to keep his distance.

"Athos rarely knows what is good for him," Aramis shrugged as he poured four glasses of wine and set one in front of d'Artagnan. "You my friend, would be very good for him. We just have to help him realise it."

"Athos hasn't spent time with you like we have. He just needs a chance to get to know you." Porthos spoke kindly.

"Like on the road to Mont Saint Michel?" D'Artagnan suggested. "I take it this mission isn't the sort of thing you would usually do?"

"Not these sorts of missions, no," Porthos grinned. "Our kind of missions usually involve a whole lot of shooting and fighting, a bit of sneaking around, the odd fist fight, a few explosions and maybe even a bomb or two."

"We are fortunate that the good Captain has seen fitting to give us something of a holiday in celebration of Athos safe deliverance," Aramis did not think d'Artagnan needed to know that Athos was not quite fit for full duties. "He is not generally so sentimental."

"Perhaps, I should get sentenced to death more often," Athos mocked lightly, as he came down the stairs.

"Don't even go there," Porthos warned even as his stomach clenched at the unpleasant memory of his friend facing the assembled muskets of the firing squad. "Or I might have to hurt you."

"My apologies," Athos eyes softened, as he laid a hand on Porthos' soldier.

Aramis tracked his friend's movements as he walked around the back of d'Artagnan, helped himself to a glass of wine and then sat down next to the boy. To all outwards appearances he seemed fine. Even Aramis' sharp eyes would have missed the subtle signs if he hadn't known Athos so well.

Something Treville had said had profoundly shaken him.

"If you are coming with us, hadn't you better go and pack?" Aramis smiled brightly at d'Artagnan.

"Am I still coming?" The boy looked to Athos.

"You heard the Captain's orders," Athos nodded calmly, as if he had not just had a stand up fight with Treville. "We leave in an hour. If you are late we will go without you."

A low growl from Porthos' stomach reminded Aramis that none of them had had breakfast yet and gave him a plan, of sorts. Rising to his feet he headed off to the kitchen, filled a large platter with cheese and meats and collected another bottle of wine. On his return he circled around the table to take the place next to Athos just vacated by d'Artagnan. Athos pressed his lips together tightly and wordlessly moved to increase the distance between them. Aramis sighed and supposed he should be glad he had not punched him.

"Would you care to talk about it?" He carefully did not make eye contact.

"Not even remotely."

"Can't be that bad," Porthos encouraged. "He only just got you back."

Athos let his head drop forward onto his chest, an uncharacteristic sign of weakness that had the two of them exchanging a faint look of alarm. Deciding he did not care if it did get him punched Aramis placed his hand on the nape of Athos' neck and squeezed gently, needing his friend to know they were there for him, no matter what.

Taking strength from his comfort Athos forced himself to rally, lifting his head, straightening his back, squaring his shoulders and talking a long swallow of wine to fortify himself before speaking.

"It has been pointed out to me that I have done you gentlemen something of a disservice. Treville is correct, it is ungracious of me to object to being given light duties in respect of my recent incarceration as 'needless coddling' when you both worked tirelessly to clear my name and have tended to my needs at the expense of my own."

"Athos, we all need this," Porthos reminded him. "Being in prison wasn't exactly a picnic for you, in case you've forgotten."

"That's not all Treville said is it?" Aramis observed astutely.

Treville had, in fact, said many things. After his initial protests Athos had been stunned into silence as the Captain, still reeling a little from how close he had come to losing a man he could not love more fiercely if he were his own flesh and blood, had not held back. But there was one particular thing which went right to the crux of the matter and had left Athos reeling.

"I am sorry," He managed, rising to his feet. "I simply cannot."

Torn between concern for his well-being and respect for his privacy, Porthos and Athos watched with consternation as Athos stalked off towards the relative privacy of the stables.

"Guess, it was that bad, after all," Porthos observed unhappily.

"Go after him," Aramis decided. Athos might not wish to talk to them but that did not mean they shouldn't have his back. "I'll go see what I can get out of Treville."

"You sure that's a good idea?" Porthos frowned.

"Probably quite a bad one," Aramis admitted, with a tight grin. "But I like to live dangerously. Besides, you've got Athos."

"Yeah," Porthos frowned, looking around. "Is there any more wine?"

Aramis entered Treville's office braced for confrontation. He was surprised to see his commanding officer sitting at his desk looking unusually defeated. He went and poured out a single measure of bandy and placed it silently on the desk. His Captain stared at the glass but did not drink.

"I told him d'Artagnan wasn't Thomas."

"As in, not everyone Athos chooses to love is doomed to die?" Aramis hazarded.

"How much do you know about Thomas?" Treville looked up at him.

"It would seem not as much as you."

Aramis was surprised. He knew Treville had had some acquaintance with Athos before he became a musketeer. He had not considered that he might also have crossed paths with his brother.

"Just answer the question, Aramis."

"I know he died five years ago. That Athos blames himself. Not the how or the why of it."

Except that it had been somehow violent and ugly, and that Athos had most likely found his body, judging by the way his friend would thrash about in his sleep, silent tears streaming down his face, railing in helpless fury, calling out Thomas' name in a cry of utter despair as he always always failed to save his brother.

Treville was searching his face as if looking for something more. But Aramis kept his expression a mask of polite enquiry and told none of that.

"There was a situation," Treville admitted finally. "Thomas misjudged it and paid with his life. If he had not acted so rashly his death might have been prevented."

"So he looks at our impetuous little Gascon and sees the younger brother he did not save?" Aramis sighed.

He thought about what Athos must see when he considered d'Artagnan, a boy on the cusp of manhood. Eager, a little naive, rather too willing to believe the best of people and far too hot headed for his own good. Little wonder he feared becoming too attached to the boy when he knew from bitter experience that such a life could too easily be snuffed out by a single rash action.

"You said you told him d'Artagnan wasn't Thomas." Aramis recalled.

"Thomas had charm and good humour. But he was more at home with his books and his music than with intrigue and danger," Treville gave Aramis a telling look. "He would never have got the better of Gaudet."

Entering the stables Aramis headed straight for the ladder that led to the hay loft. Climbing up he found Porthos and Athos exactly where he knew they would be, sitting in the far corner wordlessly passing a bottle of wine back and forth between them. Aramis raised a brow at Porthos when he noticed that Athos' eyes were somewhat damp, but he did not speak of it. He merely settled himself on Athos' other side and held out his hand for the bottle.

"You know, when I was wild with grief after Savoy I might have lost myself forever had Treville not seen fit to place us together," Aramis spoke frankly. "You were my rudder through a world of turmoil when I could not see my own way."

"When I was young and angry at the world for the hand it had dealt me, you taught me how to proud of who I was," Porthos quickly caught on. "And then you showed me how to be an even better man until I felt the equal of any in the regiment."

"Can you not bring yourself to be that man for d'Artagnan also?" Aramis nudged him gently.

"You were a soldier before I met you," Athos pointed out. "Porthos grew up learning to take care of himself on the streets. Neither one of you ever required my services as a nursemaid."

"Did you know," Aramis offered lightly as if it was of no account, "That when we needed a distraction to gain access to Gaudet's encampment, our young innocent d'Artagnan persuaded the respectable Madame Bonacieux to dress as a prostitute and offer herself to one of the guards to do whatever he liked for 10 sous?"

He counted the way that Athos spat out his wine in a fountain of spray as a singular victory.

"Now don't that sound like someone you'd at least like to get to know a little better?" Porthos grinned.


	3. Interlude (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d'Artagnan hopes the trip to Mont St Michel will prove to Athos he has he makings of a Musketeer. But they both get a bit lost of in the past.

Perhaps predictably d'Artagnan arrived a good quarter to the hour early. Aramis and Porthos shared a pleased look as Athos quietly took him aside and had him unpack every item in his saddle bags and showed him how to repack them in the manner of a solider, adding in extra gunpowder and shot from the armoury, addition rations from the kitchen and a bedroll and a second blanket from the stores to augment his meagre belongings.

"It's a start," Aramis murmured. "Although, he would do the same for any new recruit."

"He could have told one of us to do it." Porthos replied sotto voice.

"I hadn't thought of that," Aramis' lips quirked. "Not a bad start then."

"Gentlemen," Athos broke off from what he was doing to give them a pointed look. "If you two aren't ready I will not hesitate to leave you behind."

They hastened to obey.

The sky was a bright clear blue as they rode out of the Garrison. As they made their way through the busy streets of Paris, weaving in and out between the carts and people, Athos noted with some approval that d'Artagnan had a good seat and guided his mount with skilful hands.

"He grew up on a farm," Aramis spoke from beside him. "Ten Sous says he's a better rider than you."

Out in the countryside where the weak winter sun reflected off the patches of snow still lying in low and shaded spots, the race was a close run thing, all of them taking joy in the wind and speed of it. Aramis won, of course, d'Artagnan and Athos were a dead heat just a neck behind and Porthos half a length after them.

They stopped for lunch in a small clearing. Falling into long established habits, Aramis cared for the horses, Athos collected the wood and set the fire, Porthos gathered up provisions and set a warming soup to simmer without a word needed between them.

"What should I do?" d'Artagnan wondered.

"Want to try a little sword work while this cooks?" Porthos offered with a grin. "Fair warning, I'm not one for them fancy moves. I like winning."

"Porthos," Athos warned laconically. "Do try not to break him."

"It's alright," d'Artagnan assured, giving Porthos a cocky grin. "I like a challenge."

A little later, kneeling in the dirt, feeling utterly spent, barely able to force the air in and out of his own lungs as he rested his hands on his knees, and sore in places he hadn't quite expected under the code of duelling, d'Artagnan could admit he might have had a slightly inflated idea of his ability with a sword. Porthos had fought like a demon.

"You. Were," he realised, forcing the words out, between harsh breaths. "Going. Easy. On. Me."

"That's your idea of easy?" Porthos raised a brow.

"Not, you." D'Artagnan looked up, as his breathing began to slow. "Athos, before."

They all looked at Athos who looked slightly discomforted by their joint scrutiny. Although, Aramis was quite sure it was the boy's clear gaze that caused two pink spots of embarrassment to appear in his cheeks.

"You were driven by grief. It would have been dishonourable to take advantage of the way you could not contain your emotions," Athos allowed stiffly. "I meant no insult. You fought bravely."

"No," d'Artagnan scrambled to his feet, his distress that Athos had taken his words as a rebuke written all over his face. "I meant .. thank you. I acted like an idiot and you behaved with honour."

"You wished to avenge your father. Your intentions were commendable," Athos gave him a look. "If a little over zealous."

"I'll try to work on that." D'Artagnan gave a totally disarming lop sided smile.

"You'll forgive me if I don't take that wager," Athos said amusement softening his words.

They ate in quiet companionship then d'Artagnan was set to scouring their plates and dishes in a bucket whilst Porthos and Aramis played a few hands of cards and Athos napped under his hat. The two friends exchanged an approving look. Athos badly needed the rest and was less often plagued by nightmares when he slept during the day.

"You know, a little help would have been nice?" d'Artagnan groused as he finally finished. "The grease set hard as stone."

"We were helping," Aramis replied without looking at him as he dealt another card. "We were watching your back. These woods aren't like your nice cultivated fields. They can be very dangerous places. We might be attacked by bandits, waylaid by Spanish spies, fall prey to some hunter's trap, plunge into raging water."

"Exactly how gullible do you think I am?" d'Artagnan challenged.

"Pretty gullible if you think none of those things have ever happened to us," Porthos put in. "Even with the best of training being a musketeer ain't no picnic."

"Porthos once almost killed himself by getting lost in the woods because he had never seen so many trees in a single place before and they all looked alike to him," Aramis remarked. "Oh and did I say it was the very height of summer so that by the time we found him he was gasping for water and so far from himself that he barely knew us."

"Yeah, yeah," Porthos scowled. "What about that time Athos was bit by that wolf and nearly died of the fever?"

"Bitten by a wolf?" d'Artagnan scoffed. "Now I know you're not serious."

"Athos," Porthos looked over to where his friend was just stirring. "Show him your scar. He'll never believe us otherwise."

"A story for another time, perhaps," Athos declared. "We should get back on the road."

D'Artagnan had been a little nervous about meeting the Abbott but the manners his father had taught him stood him in good stead. As they made their farewells and rode away the next morning, Porthos clapped him on the back, Aramis doffed his hat to him, but it was Athos look of quiet pride which warmed his soul.

As they travelled back towards Paris it began to cloud over and then darkened ominously. D'Artagnan pulled on his brown leather cloak and watched with open envy as his companions donned the blue of the musketeer regiment. Then the skies opened and the rains came and just kept on coming.

D'Artagnan did not think he had ever been quite so wet. He grimaced as yet another trickle of rain found its way under his collar to snake down his back. He was quite literary soaked to the skin. His shirt stuck damply to his body where his jacket had proved insufficient protection. His toes were almost swimming inside his boots and his entire world smelt of damp leather and wet horse.

"Bet you thought being a musketeer would be a mite more glamorous than this." Porthos offered from beside him.

"A little," d'Artagnan grinned ruefully. "I thought I'd escaped being out in all weathers. At least on the farm there was always a barn to shelter in."

"Perhaps you should take my advice and invest in a hat?" Aramis suggested. "They really are quite useful for keeping one dry."

"Our little Gascon is worried it'll mess up his hair." Porthos put in.

"Because that would be unthinkable," Athos eyed the "drowned rat" look d'Artagnan was presently sporting, as his hair hung in wet strings around his face with wry amusement.

D'Artagnan felt a little spurt of joy that this man who was generally so reserved was comfortable enough in his presence to actually tease him.

The bandits who were stupid enough to try and ambush them and then refuse to believe they carried nothing of value were almost a welcome distraction. They did not even bother to dismount. Aramis shot one in the shoulder. Porthos punched another in the face. Athos used the pommel of his sword to knock a third senseless. D'Artagnan slipped his foot from the stirrup and kicked the final man in the face.

"Nice move." Porthos praised, with a grin.

But then as he went to wheel his horse around his expression turned to consternation as the animal lost its footing in the mud, pitching him over its shoulder to land hard on the wet ground and lie un-moving.

"Porthos?" Aramis stood up in his stirrups.

"I hate it when that happens." Porthos groused, from his prone position on the ground.

Aramis assured them all there was no serious damage but the myriad of bruises on the shoulder which had taken the brunt of the impact was obvious even against his darker skin. As was Porthos,' increasingly tight, closed, expression, as the joint was continuously jarred by the road.

"There's a village up ahead," Aramis called back over his shoulder. "It's large enough to have an Inn. Given the amount of coaches on this road it might even be quite decent."

"Is that allowed?" D'Artagnan asked hopefully.

"Depends on the mission," Porthos told him. "Sometimes, we need to move fast, then there ain't no time to rest. Other times we have to move in secret. Not even a fire in case it gives away our position."

"What about tonight?" d'Artagnan twisted around in his saddle to look at Athos. "Can we stay tonight?"

"We'd all do better for a good night's rest and a hot meal," Aramis looked across at Athos before lowering his voice to a murmur. "And Porthos really shouldn't be sleeping on the ground with that shoulder."

The only Inn in the village turned out to be a very respectable establishment. It was also almost fully occupied. The only room available had a four poster bed, an enormous fireplace, an antechamber with a private bath tub and cost an eye watering amount. D'Artagnan wondered forlornly if they might be allowed to sleep in the stables.

"We'll take it." Athos didn't hesitate.

"You're a good man, Athos," Aramis patted his shoulder. "Have I told you recently just how much I love you?"

"It's still your turn to go last in the bathtub." Athos reminded him.

"You wound me," Aramis placed a hand over his heart, as they all claimed a table by the fire, shedding wet cloaks and hats. "Wait, does that include d'Artagnan? Because he wasn't even with us the last time we had the luxury of hot water to bathe in."

"Nor, I imagine does he have the habit of wallowing for hours until the water is too cold for the rest of us," Athos retorted dryly. "Besides, he has ridden longer and harder today than he would in a week at home in Gascony, without complaint. I think he has earned the right to precede you."

"It's fine," D'Artagnan felt warmed by the unexpected praise but he did not want to presume. "Aramis can have my turn."

"Are you saying you aren't sore?" Athos demanded.

Belatedly catching the way Aramis was shaking his head at him and Porthos was giving him a 'back off' look, d'Artagnan realised that countermanding Athos' instruction had perhaps not been the best course of action. For all Aramis and Porthos took certain liberties d'Artagnan had noticed that when Athos gave an order it was followed without question.

"Um, a little," d'Artagnan hastily backtracked. "Perhaps a bath would be nice?"

"Now he's getting it." Porthos chortled.

Supper was a lively affair, with Aramis constantly topping up his glass with wine and Porthos piling extra food on his plate as they vied with each other to tell ever more outrageous tales. Even Athos was cajoled into telling the story about the wolf, pulling up the leg of his breeches to show the scar on his calf as d'Artagnan looked on in awe.

"Anyone fancy a hand of cards?" Porthos asked when they'd eaten.

"I think a different kind of diversion might just have presented itself," Aramis smirked. Following his gaze d'Artagnan saw two well-dressed young woman sitting down to dinner with a man who was obviously their father. Glancing at the Gascon he waggled his eyebrows. "And she has a younger sister."

"Thank you, but no," D'Artagnan tipped his glass at him. "The last time I pursued a liaison with a beautiful woman I encountered at an Inn she tried to frame me for murder."

"I beg your pardon?" Athos frowned.

"You really are full of surprises, aren't you?" Aramis remarked.

"That's your "unfinished business?"" Porthos chortled. "I hope she was worth it."

"A gentleman never tells," d'Artagnan smiled across at his friend. "But she wasn't the sort of woman any man could easily forget."

"How did you get away?" Aramis asked.

"I jumped out of a first floor window." D'Artagnan winced at the memory. "I think I cracked a rib, or two."

"See how much trouble he can get into without our help?" Porthos looked pointedly at Athos.

Raising his eyes to meet Athos' gaze d'Artagnan felt rather abashed. His father's body had been barely cold and he had taken an unknown woman into his bed. Even if she wasn't married she had clearly been in a relationship with her traveling companion. He was fairly sure she hadn't even told him her real name.

His father would have been rightly furious.

"I wouldn't usually behave like that," He tried to explain, feeling the blush rise in his face. "I hope you don't think .."

"Grief does funny things to people." Porthos spoke kindly.

"And the comfort of a striking woman can be great balm to a wounded soul." Aramis' tone was understanding.

"Monsieur Athos, your bath is ready." The serving girl advised.

"Porthos, take my turn," Athos told him. "You need it more than I."

Unlike d'Artagnan Porthos did not argue he simply made a slight detour to the bar, bought a bottle of red, silently placed it in front of Athos, clapped him on the shoulder in thanks and went off to let the hot water ease his bruises.

"I'd better help him," Aramis decided. "He's going to have trouble undressing and that's his favourite shirt."

Left alone with Athos, d'Artagnan pressed his lips together tightly. He almost wished the man would reprimand him for his behaviour. He remembered how often his father had scolded him for being too hot-headed, or making rash decisions. Now his father was gone and he had no idea how he was going to live in a world without him.

It was only when Athos topped up his glass and wordlessly nudged it towards him that he realised he was crying.

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan scrubbed impatiently at his face. "I don't know what's got into me lately. I don't normally behave like this either."

"You have not allowed yourself the time to grieve." Athos surprised him.

"I thought if I kept busy it would hurt less," D'Artagnan risked a glance at Athos' expression and seeing only compassion was emboldened to continue. "I miss him, so much. It all happened so quickly. I just can't believe that he's gone."

Athos all too vividly remembered how Thomas was also gone from his life in an instant, how raw and gaping the wound, how long it had taken to accept that he was truly lost to him.

"My father was a good man," d'Artagnan spoke quietly. "He deserved to live to old age and die in his bed, surrounded by friends and family. Not bleed to death in the street whilst I could do nothing to save him."

Athos own memories came unbidden, the look of pain in Thomas' eyes, the harsh ratting breaths, far too much blood, and his own utter helplessness as he tried to bring him back to life.

"And do you know the worst part?" d'Artagnan met his gaze, his expression stricken. "I might have saved him. If only I had been at his side he could still be alive. I don't think I will ever forgive myself for that."

Athos gripped his wine glass so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"I am quite certain your father would not wish to spend your life in recriminations," He managed. He would not allow this promising youth to blight his entire life because of a tragic accident. "His memory would be far better served by fulfilling your goal to become a musketeer."

"Treville said that if you gave a good report of me, I would need to find someone to sponsor my training," d'Artagnan gave a soft, hopeful, smile. "I don't suppose you know anyone who could help with that?"

"I'll speak to Treville in support of your acceptance as soon as we return," Athos vowed, secretly more than a little pleased at being the cause of the boy lit up with joy at his words. He deserved this chance. "I am sure the Captain will find someone willing to oversee your training."

"But .." d'Artagnan's face fell. He swallowed hard and summoned his courage "I would rather have you."

"No," Athos was not about to explain himself. But they were too much alike. Their grief and pain too intertwined. He would be no good for the boy. "You wouldn't."

"D'Artagan's turn for the bath tub," Aramis announced brightly, appearing at Athos' elbow. "Try not to take too long or use too much soap. Nobody likes to wash in lukewarm scum."

He paused, looking carefully from one to the other. Athos' face was like stone. D'Artagnan looked close to tears.

"My apologies, if I am interrupting something."


	4. Revelations at the Inn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan finds out much more than he bargained for. Still it helps him understand Athos rather better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I wanted d'Artagnan to understand why Athos was so protective of him and I didn't want to wait until they got to le Fere.

Making his way upstairs to their shared room d'Artagnan's movements were stiff with hurt and his expression sour with resentment at Athos' rejection. Focused on his own feelings he stalked straight past Porthos, without so much as an acknowledgement. Entering the small ante chamber where the bathtub was waiting he took a particular pleasure in the loud slam of the door, followed by the satisfying thud each of his boots made as he kicked them off to fly across the room and land at the base of the far wall.

"What's eatin' him?"

D'Artagnan froze as Porthos' voice came clearly thorough the thin partition wall. An indistinct murmur that could only be Aramis answered him. It was followed by the sounds of a cork being pulled from a bottle and liquid being poured into glasses.

"Athos, come and sit by the fire," Aramis invited. "You'll catch your death skulking over there in those damp clothes."

"Thank you for your concern, but I'm fine." Athos responded tonelessly.

"Athos, my friend," Feet crossed the floor. "Don't do this to yourself. You only want what you feel is best for the boy."

Me? D'Artagnan felt a lurch of surprise. He's worrying about me?

"He thinks me heartless." Athos' voice sounded unexpectedly pained.

"Nonsense," Aramis scoffed kindly. "If anything, you feel things too deeply. Look how you take on every hurt or slight to Porthos or I as if it were to your own person. And now you are torturing yourself over the welfare of young d'Artagnan despite the brevity of our acquaintance."

"I cannot lose another brother," Athos' tone sounded raw. "Not for nothing but youthful folly. I simply cannot."

"Oh Athos."

There were sounds of rustling and movement followed by a murmur of words followed too soft to penetrate the wall between them, even if d'Artagnan could have heard anything over the roaring sound in his ears. His brother died for some impetuous act? D'Artagnan felt his chest clench in dismay at the way his recent words must have rubbed salt in that wound. No wonder he judges me.

"It's gone pretty quiet in there," Porthos observed suddenly. "You think he's drowned?"

Belatedly, d'Artagnan realised that they would be expecting to hear the sounds of water sloshing around the bathtub and see him emerge looking freshly washed. Reaching over he used a hand to agitate the water for a while, then he quickly stripped down to braises before taking a deep breath and ducking his head into the water, before emerging gasping and shaking droplets off his long hair.

"You're a little warm." On the other side of the wall Aramis' voice sounded worried.

"You were the one who dragged me closer to the fire." Athos responded dryly.

"This one's infected," Porthos spoke up. "Looks nasty."

"I suppose clean and dry was rather too much to ask for in our present circumstances," Aramis sounded resigned. "If I flush them out and leave them open to the air for tonight we may yet save your hand."

"That would be a comfort." Athos sounded amused of all things.

On the other side of the door d'Artagnan sank down onto the floor and dropped his head into his hands. Athos was wounded? And badly if what he had overheard was to be believed. And yet the man had not given the least outward sign of discomfort, at least not in his presence. They had been on the road since yesterday morning. Aramis must have cleaned and re- dressed his wounds at least twice without his knowledge, no wonder the finest soldier the regiment did not want to be burdened with such a self-obsessed child.

He was not quite sure how long he sat there. When one of the candles suddenly burnt itself out he realised with a guilty start that it was much longer than it should have been and the bathwater was long since cold and covered in soap scum. Resigning himself to a well-deserved dressing down for depriving both Athos and Aramis of its comfort, he gathered up his discarded clothes and stepped quietly back into the room. Only to be met with a sight that was nothing like he expected.

The three musketeers were sat on the floor in front of the fire, their feet stretched out towards its warmth, their backs resting against the foot of the large bed. All three were sound asleep. Aramis was still fully clothed save for his hat, left on a table by the door, Porthos was comfortable in shirt and braies, Athos was halfway between the two his unlaced shirt giving d'Artagnan his first look at the vivid bruising on his chest and raw welts on his wrists.

Porthos was pressed up against Athos' shoulder, bracing him as it seemed against the ills of the world. Aramis' head was tipped back, as he snored softly, his arm was wrapped around Athos' shoulder, in a gesture of affection d'Artagnan would have sworn Athos would never permit. For his part Athos' hand was resting on Porthos leg and his head was pillowed on Aramis' shoulder in a show of absolute trust. As he slowly climbed into the enormous four poster bed, d'Artagnan vowed that he would find some way to be worthy of the friendship of these three men.

By the time he woke the next morning it was to find the room flooded with light and empty apart from Athos who sat in the window seat in his shirtsleeves, one booted foot crossed over the other, as he read from a small volume.

"So, you're awake then," Athos spared him a look but did not wait for a reply. "Aramis is seeing to the horses. Porthos is fetching us breakfast. Take your time. It's an easy day's ride back to Paris so we are in no particular hurry."

"Right," d'Artagnan scrambled out of bed anyway, feeling the awkwardness of the previous night hanging over him. Remembering his resolution he went over to his saddle bags and rummaged around. Finding the small metal tin he was looking for he presented it a little shyly.

"This salve was my mother's recipe," He gave a bashful smile as he nodded at the red raw wrists. "It's good for wounds."

Athos looked up sharply, shock and surprise written clearly across his face. D'Artagnan was not sure if it was the small act of kindness that he found so startling or that the Gascon had been so swift to forgive him. It made d'Artagnan feel bitterly ashamed of his petulance and all the more determined to do whatever he could to prove his worth.

"Thank you." Athos held his gaze, causing d'Artagnan to blush slightly.

"About last night," d'Artagnan determined to be a man his father would have been proud of. A man Athos could be proud of. "I apologise for my behaviour. I am not usually so ill mannered. I would be most grateful for any recommendation you might see fit to give to Captain Treville."

"Of course," Athos pressed his lips together slightly. D'Artagnan felt a surge of hope at the indecision warring in his eyes. But then Athos continued. "Treville is a fine Captain. You will be in good hands."

Perhaps predictably Treville was not best pleased with Athos' decision.

His Lieutenant gave a good report of d'Artagnan's conduct. Behind Athos' careful words and emotional reserve, Treville detected a developing fondness for the young Gascon, a certain degree of exasperation at his youthful over confidence, but a solid certainly that with time and proper training he had the character to overcome any deficiencies.

"I could order you to take the boy on." He regarded him closely.

"You could," Athos hesitated. "I would take it as a particular kindness if you did not."

Treville looked away. That Athos had even asked. That he had phrased it in such a way. His Lieutenant had never presumed on their personal relationship. The Captain feared it would be an unforgiveable breach of the trust between them if he insisted on this. Even if it was for the man's own good.

"Very well," Treville agreed, his soldier's mind already formulating a plan. He could rotate d'Artagnan's assignments under the guise of assessing his skills and hold off on making any permanent decision about the boy's future in the hope that Athos would come to his senses. "Ask d'Artagnan to come up here would you?"

D'Artagnan tried to convince himself it didn't matter as long as he had a chance to become a musketeer. He still saw Athos almost every day. The musketeer would always meet his eyes, giving a swift nod of acknowledgement or a slight quirk of his lips which left d'Artagnan feeling more bereft than as if the man had marched past without a word. Hoping for a little comfort, he spoke to Constance, only to receive short shift when she would not hear a word against Athos.

"I really thought we could be friends," d'Artagnan sighed, the hope that Athos' steady presence could fill the aching void left in his life by the death of his father too painful to actually voice. "I wish there was a way to show him that I can take care of myself."

"Athos is a good man," Constance asserted. "If he doesn't want to sponsor you I'm sure he has his reasons."

"I thought you'd be on my side," d'Artagnan pouted a little at her spirited defence. "How do you know Athos anyway?"

He hadn't forgotten that she had been prepared to risk her reputation and pose as a prostitute to help Athos, even if she had saved his life soon after.

"It only happened the one time and it was years ago now so I don't need you doing anything stupid," Constance warned abruptly. "When Athos first joined the regiment he came to order some new shirts and when he saw the bruise. Well let's just say he made sure I don't have to worry about it ever happening again."

"Are you saying your husband hit you?" d'Artagnan was horrified. "There was a bruise?"

"Like I said," Constance's tone made it clear this conversation was over. "Athos took care of it."

D'Artagnan had learnt that the musketeer was a man of high principles and deep compassion. When Athos had come across him cleaning every bridle in the tack room he had expected a scalding reprimand.

"What did you do?"

"I'm not sorry and I won't apologise." D'Artagnan was defiant.

"Good to know," Athos took a step into the room. He reached out and carefully tilted d'Artagnan's jaw into the light, examining the rather spectacular bruise. "Although, I dare say that attitude did little to placate Treville."

"The Captain wanted me to tell him the cause of the fight," d'Artagnan's eyes were lit with fierce determination. "I would take any punishment to spare Porthos that."

"I see," Athos truly did. He had fought enough battles of his own, protecting his friend from the snide comments and prejudice judgements of those around them. He raised a brow. "I hope you won."

D'Artagnan felt something tense uncoil inside him when he realised Athos did not judge him for his spirited defence of someone who had shown him nothing but kindness. All the more so when Athos sat down beside him and started to clean one of the bridles in small, neat, circles in a silent show of support.

When Aramis' prized stallion suffered a nasty cut on its leg, but its devoted rider was called away on the King's business, d'Artagnan made up endless poultices to draw out the swelling.

"It's healing nicely," Aramis could not keep the surprise and relief from his voice when they returned. He gave the horse a fond pat. "I think you're going to be alright boy."

It was Athos who noticed the huddled figure sound asleep in the back of the stall, utterly exhausted from watching over his charge in addition to training. As he gently covered d'Artagnan with his cloak, he half feared Aramis might mock him for his sentimentality, but his friend seemed unaccountably proud of him for the gesture. It was only in hindsight that Athos would realise the role his brothers had played in bringing the two of them together.

"He's been at that for an hour now and he still hasn't managed to hit the bulls eye once," Porthos murmured as he looked over at d'Artagnan. The three musketeers were in the courtyard, checking over their horses and equipment before they rode out. Yet Aramis had not so much as glanced at the firearms lesson going on mere feet away. "Ain't you going to help 'im out?"

"Nope," Aramis said with a tight grin.

"A fraction too far to the right," Renard stated the obvious. D'Aragnan groaned with frustration but the seasoned Musketeer was unmoved. "Try again."

Porthos frowned, about to object. Then Aramis tipped his head a little in Athos' direction. On their other side Athos was also walking around his horse, checking its tack and running a hand down its legs. But between each necessary action his gaze kept being drawn back to an increasingly dispirited d'Artagnan.

"Oh, I get it." Porthos grinned.

Seeing Athos flick a glance, and then another, in Aramis' direction, obviously wondering if he was going to offer his expertise, Aramis decided to make it quite clear he wasn't going to get involved. Putting his foot in the stirrup he mounted smoothly. Grinning broadly Porthos followed suit.

"He's not going to be able to resist helpin', is he?"

"This is Athos, we're talking about." Aramis agreed smugly.

"A little to the left this time," Renard informed the Gascon needlessly as the bullseye was missed yet again. Almost beside himself with frustration d'Artagnan kicked at the dirt.

"You're thinking about it too much," Athos' voice was suddenly in his ear. His arm came around him correcting his aim a fraction, a foot nudged his feet slightly wider apart. "Don't think, just breathe."

This time d'Artagnan made a perfect shot, straight through the centre of the target. Behind him he could hear Aramis applauding. But it was the warmth of Athos' hand on his back that lingered as he was left alone in the courtyard as the others rode out. It was some days before he saw them again. Coming back to the garrison having delivered a message for Treville his heart leapt to see Aramis dismounting in the courtyard, his face pinched and tight with concern with Porthos standing by, his brow deeply furrowed, holding both his and Athos' horse.

"Athos?" He demanded urgently, knowing only the feeling of sick dread in his stomach as he couldn't locate the other man, unaware of how swiftly his face had paled. "Is he injured?"

The look that passed between Aramis and Porthos was so quick as to be almost un-noticeable. Although the compassionate hand Aramis laid on his shoulder spoke volumes.

"Don't concern yourself. Athos is quite well. He's upstairs, speaking with Treville."

"But your faces, I thought.." D'Artagnan trailed off, belatedly realising that that there were a thousand other reasons men charged with the safety of the King himself could look concerned.

"You ever heard of Vadim?" Porthos asked, as he passed the horses to Jacques the stable boy and headed to the table where Old Serge was already laying out wine, glasses and cold meats.

"Should I have?" D'Artagnan asked guardedly as he sank into a seat.

"He's a criminal, nasty sort, but clever with it," Porthos uncorked the wine and splashed it into four glasses in a simple gesture which made d'Artagnan's sharp loneliness retreat just a fraction. "He's stolen enough gunpowder to blow up half of Paris and word is he's recruited enough men to make an army."

"And you're trying to find him?" d'Aratgnan guessed.

"No, we know exactly where he is," Aramis joined then, picking up one of the glasses and downing it in one. "A couple of Red Guards picked him up when he was visiting his mistress. He's been cooling his heels in the Chatelet since then. But he's not talking. "

"Treville shares our concern. The King and Queen must not be put at risk," Athos put in as he descended the stairs. "It is imperative we discover Vadim's intentions."

"The Queen always pardons a few deserving prisoners at this time of year," Aramis observed, as Athos sat down and picked up a glass. "Perhaps, one of them might be bribed to spend their last night or two with Vadim and see what they might uncover?"

"S'risky," Porthos demurred. "Vadim has a lot of power. Most criminals would be more scared of 'im than us. It's gotta be someone we can trust not to turn traitor."

"I could get arrested again," Athos said blandly. "It would be a simple matter to provoke an illegal duel."

"Sadly your recent incarceration his given you a certain notoriety," Aramis shrugged apologetically. "You would be instantly known as a musketeer."

"I could do it," Porthos spoke up quietly. But he did not meet their eyes and his body language looked stiff and tense.

"No," Athos and Aramis spoke as one, causing d'Artagnan's eyes to widen slightly.

"Porthos my friend, you have worked hard to make your name as a King's musketeer. You can hardly complain now when it is known throughout all Paris." Aramis spoke deceptively lightly. People were too quick to look at Porthos with suspicion or derision as if he were a criminal. His brothers would do all they could to spare him greater pain.

"Not the whole of Paris," Porthos pointed out bitterly. "Just them bits with Vadim's sort in 'em".

"And with good reason," Athos spoke with quiet authority. The thought of Porthos manacled and in chains as he had been curled his stomach. "How many of those men find themselves incarcerated due to your loyal service to the King?"

"I suppose that leaves me," Aramis grimaced theatrically. "I hate getting locked up. The cells are always draughty. The food is terrible and the sanitation more dangerous than the company."

"I could do it." D'Artagnan spoke up.

Athos raised a brow at Aramis that clearly said now see what you did. They both knew that Armias was only posturing. He was the most experienced soldier of the three of them. He had experienced all manner of hardship on campaign and always done his duty. Not only had he endured Savoy but he had had to steel to come through the other side.

"Aramis mis-spoke. Being imprisoned is not to be taken lightly," Athos cast a reproving look at his brother, who had the grace to look a little sheepish, before he eyed the still eager looking Gascon sternly. "The food and conditions would be the least of your worries. Vadim is a highly dangerous man."

D'Artagnan squared his shoulders. He was determined not to be put off. This was the chance he had been waiting for to prove his worth. If he could do this then perhaps he could begin to gain Athos' respect.

"I can handle it." He insisted.


	5. Enter Vadim (and how Porthos bonded with Athos)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan wants to prove himself to Athos and asks Porthos how he earned the Musketeers trust.

D'Artagnan thought he might just have made a terrible mistake.

In his defence he didn't know Treville was standing on the balcony, when he had made his impetuous decision. Nor that the Captain would be so quick to take him up on his offer. D'Artagnan wanted to believe it was because Treville thought he was the right man for the job. Although, in his heart of hearts he feared it was simply that the Captain had little choice. Athos had greeted Treville's decision with stiff disapproval. D'Artagnan had actually seen Aramis tread heavily on Athos' foot to stop him saying something to his superior officer that he would regret. Then he had all but propelled Athos to the other end of the courtyard, speaking urgently in his ear, as he strove to put some distance between the two men. D'Artagnan had half expected swordplay, but instead they began working on their hand to hand, trading holds and throws.

"Athos would have the upper hand if it were swords," Porthos read his mind. "Aramis would win if they chose muskets. This way Athos has the greater strength but Aramis has the longer reach, it makes 'em pretty equal."

Plus, when he got like this, his friends had learnt that Athos was grounded by their touch. The constant exchange of grips and close physical contact, coupled with Aramis' steady stream of words, even when caught in a loose headlock, was already visibly rounding out the stiff lines of Athos' shoulders and banishing some of the shadows from his eyes. Porthos smiled slightly at the sight.

"He's really angry I volunteered to do this, isn't he?" d'Artagnan sighed.

"You should take it as a compliment." Porthos advised, kindly.

"What? That he has so little faith in my abilities?" d'Artagnan scowled.

"That he cares about you, you dolt," Porthos corrected firmly. "Athos has a good heart but it's rare he takes to people like he has to you. It says something about you that he thinks you're worth fretting over."

"I thought this would be a chance to earn his respect," D'Artagnan sighed, his eyes relentlessly tracking Athos' movements. "But now he thinks I'm a fool who doesn't know when he's out of his depth. I'm just making things worse. How can I get him to see he can trust me?"

"You could stop trying so hard for a start," Porthos advised bluntly. "Real trust grows out of little things. Like you giving Athos' your mum's salve."

"He told you about that?" d'Artagnan looked pleased that his gesture had been well received. But as ever his youthful zeal was not satisfied. "But there must be something more I can do. What about you? There must have been a moment, something when Athos stopped looking at you as just another musketeer and saw you as someone he could really count on?"

"Maybe," Porthos looked a little uncomfortable before he finally admitted. "Athos lost something of value to 'im, I just happened to find it, that's all."

Much as Porthos liked the boy he didn't know him well enough yet to share the detail of that particular episode. As much for what it revealed about his own past as for the invasion of Athos' privacy. The ambush had been carefully planned. They later discovered their movements had been betrayed by a spy in the Ambassador's entourage. At the time they knew only they were heavily outnumbered and had been swiftly defeated.

"Do nothing. Say nothing." Athos murmured.

Kneeling on the ground, with his hands bound behind him and a ring of mercenaries, with their swords drawn, encircling them, Porthos had bristled slightly at Athos' words. Every fibre of him rebelled at being at these men's mercy. But looking across at his Lieutenant he took faith in the aura of calm and authority the man was projecting. Porthos hadn't known Athos long and the man's obvious discomfort with casual intimacy had made it difficult to get close to him. At first Porthos had been wary of his noble bearing. But Athos had treated him with the same courtesy and respect as any other man in the regiment.

On one notable occasion, Porthos had decided to celebrate his comparative riches as newly commissioned musketeer to drink in a more upmarket tavern than he usually frequented. He still remembered the look on disdain on the young nobleman's face when he said "Your sort aren't welcome here, boy." Accused of ripping his musketeer's pauldron from a good man's corpse, Porthos had been ready for a fight, when Athos had unexpectedly emerged from the shadows in the corner to vouch for him,

"As he said, this man is a King's musketeer and you owe him an apology." Athos' tone had been deadly. "Any man who judges others by appearances deserves to be judged in his turn."

Porthos had listened with mounting admiration as Athos had, with scathing precision, pointed out how the nobleman's richly embroidered doublet deflected attention from his weak chin, how his breeches were cut to give the impression of rather more muscle in the calf than his indolent lifestyle actually allowed, and how his sword, albeit richly jewelled, was ill balanced and merely ornament, not fit to defend any man's honour, much to the growing amusement of the man's shallow circle of so called friends.

"Need I go on?" Athos had raised a mocking brow,

Utter fool that he was the young nobleman had challenged Athos to a duel for the insult. Not hiding his expression of disdain Athos had barely allowed him to unsheathe his sword before neatly disarming him, sending the blade arcing up into the air so that he could catch it in his left hand, even as he placed the point of his own sword under the man's chin.

"Nice." Porthos had approved.

"I do my best," Athos' lips quirked slightly.

"Please don't scar me," The man was already begging.

"I wouldn't dream of it." Athos looked positively affronted.

"Naw," Porthos agreed lazily. "Some nice girl might mistake a scar like that for an honourable wound earned in battle. We can't have that."

"I suggest his teeth," Athos looked calmly at Porthos. "There will be copious loss of blood but nothing life threatening and I dare say in future he will not be so keen to open his mouth for fear that his circle of admirers will recoiled from his unsightly features as they should have done from his poisoned words."

"My pleasure," Porthos had grinned tightly.

It was his trust in Athos which compelled him to hold fast as the hired mercenaries began to move along the line of five captives. Each musketeer was thoroughly searched, the mercenaries taking pleasure in meeting out a fist here and a boot there. Porthos winced in sympathy when the bundle of documents was found inside Athos' jacket and he was rewarded with a vicious backhand across the face that sent him sprawling, blood spraying from his nose. As he fought to right himself, his hands still tied behind his back a glint of silver caught the leader's eye.

"That's a right pretty piece," the man crowed. "Fetch a good price that will."

Still slightly dazed from the heavy blow Porthos could tell it took Athos a second to realise exactly what he meant. He saw the moment Athos' eyes widened as the chain around his neck was seized in one gloved hand and ripped from him so harshly that the links bit into his skin and beads of blood blossomed on his neck. Even so, Porthos doubted that it was that small injury which caused the look of fury on Athos' usually stoic features as the fine silver locket was held aloft.

"No!" Athos roared.

He surged to his feet, running at the man head down and butting him in the stomach, sending him flying, before using his boots to find the tender spots on the man's stomach and then ribs as his assailant curled into a ball. Following his lead, Porthos took down two more, almost enjoying the challenge of having to fight with both hands tied behind his back, before a harsh cry brought them both to a standstill.

"Stop, or your friends die!"

They turned to see the remaining three members of their company, each with one mercenary with a knife across their exposed throats and a second with a sword pointed at their hearts. Porthos exchanged a quick glance with Athos, but wasn't surprised when the other man swiftly shook his head. The odds were too great and there were simply too many opponents to risk their comrades' lives.

Slowly the man Athos had beaten rose to his feet, hatred burning in his eyes. Very deliberately he advanced, rolling up his sleeves and clenching his fists as he did so. Porthos felt his chest swell with love and respect as Athos had simply stood his ground looking the man in the eye without a trace of fear. Their Lieutenant knew exactly what was coming and was fully prepared to take this man's vicious retaliation himself rather than risk deflecting their captor's wrath onto any one of his men.

"Oi," Porthos heard himself shout. "I bet I could knock you down like a feather even with both hands tied behind my back. Try me we'll see what you can really do or are you too much of a coward to fight like a real man?"

His blood already up, the mercenary growled low in his throat at the insult, turning away from Athos and advancing menacingly on Porthos. Behind him Athos' expression looked predictably furious rather than grateful. But Porthos could live with the dressing down he would doubtless get later for needlessly putting himself in danger. Athos was already hurt, he wasn't about to let anyone touch him again. Not if it was in his power to prevent it.

"Carlos, we don't have time for this," One of the other mercenaries unexpectedly intervened. "We have what we came for. If the ship sails before we can deliver the documents not one of us'ill get paid."

The glowering looks of his companions was enough to cause the man to uncoil his fists and take a step back. Although, he wasn't above spitting in Porthos' face as he retreated. Unable to wipe it away, the musketeer stood rigid as the saliva slid down his face.

Once certain they were alone it was the work of moments for each of them to untie one another's bonds. As soon as he was free Athos turned on Porthos, his features uncharacteristically filled with utter fury.

"You should not have done that. You put yourself at needless risk and for nothing?"

Porthos took a deep breathe, pushing aside his anger to focus on what was actually important here. Looking Athos in the eye he spoke with fierce determination.

"You ain't nothin'. You was already hurt and I weren't about to let that git beat on a man I'd be proud to call friend when I could do anything to prevent it," When Athos looked utterly nonplussed at his words, Porthos softened his tone with a little humour. "Besides, we still need to get back what they took from us. You'd be no help in that if your brains were addled."

"The documents are safe." Athos assured them all.

"But he took them from you," Bernard protested. "We all saw."

"He took a bundle of correspondence of no consequence. With a few lies and mis-directions thrown in for good measure," Athos corrected as he reached down and pulled the real documents from inside his boot. "I hoped that once they believed they had found what they were looking for they would stop searching and so it proved."

"That' s bloody brilliant." Porthos beamed from ear to ear, as he clapped Athos on the shoulder. "You're a right marvel, you are."

Athos looked slightly abashed at such a fervent endorsement, two endearing pink spots of embarrassment appearing in his cheeks as he coughed awkwardly.

"It's every man's duty to do his best for the King and France. Now let us get the documents to the envoy before our mercenary friends realise they have been misled."

"What about your locket?" Porthos caught Athos' arm before he could mount.

"It is long lost." Athos would not meet his eyes. "Do not concern yourself."

"I can go after them while you carry onto Paris," Porthos was determined to repay the kindness this man had shown to him. "I could take it off his body as he slept and he'd never even know I'd been there."

"And if he woke and put a dagger in you?" Athos retorted more sharply than he intended. Taking a breath he visibly got his emotions under control in a show of sheer will power that Porthos both admired and pitied. "No, Porthos. Thank you for your concern but I will not risk your life for a .. mere trinket."

"Trinket, is it now?" Porthos challenged. Casting a look at the other musketeers he checked they were well out of ear shot before lowering his voice. "Athos, I've seen you with that locket. Now I ain't one to pry, but it's as clear as day it means the world to you. I might never have had much of anything as a kid. But I know what it's like to have something you value taken from you and I know how much that hurts. Let me do this."

"You are mistaken," Athos spoke with careful precision. "It is of no real consequence and certainly not worth risking your safety or well-being to retrieve it. Now, the King is expecting us to do our duty. That is all that matters."

Despite his fine words, it was obvious in the days that followed that Athos desperately mourned the locket's loss. He seemed even more melancholy than usual and eschewed the least part of company. More than once Porthos caught him putting his hand up to rub at his neck when he thought no one was looking. Watching his friend suffer it took longer than Porthos might have hoped. But eventually his own particular brand of patience paid off.

"I have something for you," He announced one morning as he arrived at the garrison, helping himself to the bottle of wine already open in front of Athos with a bright grin. "Something you've been missing."

"Oh?" Athos regarded him with mild curiosity.

He rather hoped Athos wouldn't ask how he had managed it. Nor think to look at the bruises knuckles hidden under his gloves, or connect his recent absences from numerous nights at the tavern with his ceaseless quest to ask questions in all the wrong places. Athos knew enough about his background to know what kind of connections he could call upon. And it wasn't exactly stealing if you were simply re-uniting an object with its rightful owner. Still none was any of it exactly conduct becoming a musketeer. He would rather for all their sakes that word of his recent activities did not reach Treville's ears.

Except that the question Athos actually asked wasn't anything like those he had been imagining.

"Why?" Athos managed so quietly Porthos almost missed it.

Porthos' heart almost broke at the look on Athos' face. He realised the other man had instantly realised the lengths he must have gone to in tracking down the locket. And that Athos was shocked, almost beyond words, that Porthos would do such a thing for him. Porthos thought about cataloguing all those occasions, either by personal example or at the point of a sword, that Athos had ensured Porthos was treated with respect. Except he realised that was simply the man Athos was and that he would see nothing extrondinary in his actions.

"Because it mattered to you," He spoke with simple kindness. "And you, my friend, matter a great deal to me."

"I am .. in your debt," Athos managed, his voice tight with emotion. He clasped Porthos' shoulder in a gesture of brotherhood, his eyes unashamedly damp. "More than you will ever know."

Porthos had never revealed that his curiosity had overcome him. Having secured the locket his desire to respect Athos' privacy had warred with his instinct to do whatever he could to protect someone he had come to care about and who seemed to have such little sense of his own worth. His instinct told him that whatever secrets this locket contained it had the power to break Athos. And he was not about to let that happen if it was in his power to prevent it. He had expected the portrait of a women the simple pressed flower inside, a forget-me-not as he discovered later, both surprised and confused him. How could he protect Athos from a threat he did not understand? Still that had not stopped him from being vigilant and ready. Athos was his brother now and anyone who wanted to harm him would have to get through Porthos first.

And he would make sure that was far from easy.

"So, what can I do to get in Athos good graces?" d'Artagnan demanded.

The boy's words brought Porthos sharply back to the present, where Athos was now grinning fondly at Aramis, who wrapped him in a warm embrace, the pair of them covered in mud and their hair sticking up at all angles.

"You do what Treville instructed, find out what Vadim plans to do, make 'im believe that you feel bitter and betrayed, willing to risk everything to get revenge on the government that would see you hang for defending your honour," Porthos paused. "And leave Athos to us."


	6. How Athos learned to trust Aramis (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos begins to realise that he's lagging a little behind his friends when it comes to d'Artagnan's potential. And Aramis reminds him why its not always a bad thing to open his heart.

In spite of himself Athos found himself waiting for d'Artagnan to descend from Treville's office. Despite his own misgivings about the whole enterprise d'Artagnan was about to put his life in significant danger in the service of the king. He would be remiss if he did not offer the benefit of his experience to give him the best possible chance of success.

"Athos," d'Artagnan nodded at him politely, but made to pass by him as if his business lay elsewhere.

"I was wondering if you wished to spar," Athos offered.

He supposed he couldn't blame the boy for the way his words stopped him in his tracks. He knew that Aramis and Porthos had both been generous with their time in practising with him, part in sport and part to report to Treville about his progress. But since their impromptu duel Athos had scrupulously avoided any reason to cross swords with him, always deferring to the musketeers Treville had entrusted with overseeing the boy's training.

"Thank you, but I don't wish to impose," d'Artagnan was politeness itself. "I wouldn't want to take you from more important duties."

Athos supposed he deserved that. In matter of fact he wasn't even certain the boy meant it as any kind of rebuke. That the Gascon might genuinely think that Athos had better things to do was more wounding than any insult. He wanted to assure d'Artagnan that his welfare was of paramount importance to him. But he feared the words would sound hollow when the manner in which he had been treating the boy had given the boy so little proof of his true feelings.

"Your opponent does not know that the duel is a ruse, he will be trying to kill you." He reminded instead.

"Porthos taught me a few moves," d'Artagnan surprised him. "Besides, I only have to stay alive long enough for the Red Guards to intervene and Constance made sure to complain loudly enough about the foolishness of men settling their differences in a duel in front of Captain Trudeau and his men that they will probably be lying in wait."

"There are certain intelligences about Vadim which we have gathered which might be useful to you," Athos tried again. "It would best be discussed over a good dinner. The food in the Chatelet leaves a great deal to be desired."

"Thank you for your concern," d'Artagnan gave him a warm smile. "But Treville already shared everything he knows of Vadim and Aramis was kind enough to ensure, as he put it, that the condemned man ate a hearty meal."

"I see." Athos managed.

It seemed that his friends had unwittingly put him to shame. Even Madame Bonacieux had been more instrumental in securing the success of their present enterprise then he had managed thus far. Whilst Athos still hoped to persuade d'Artagnan of the folly of his choice it sat ill with him that he had not done everything he could to prepare him.

"There was one thing," d'Artagnan's slightly hesitant voice surprised him. "I was wondering what to expect? In prison, I mean?"

Athos gave the boy a sharp look but his face showed no fear, just honest curiosity and a hint of uncertainty, which was forgivable in the circumstances. D'Artagnan deserved to know what he was about to face.

"It is uncomfortable," Athos admitted with habitable understatement. "The cells are cold and the light is poor, the floors bare earth with little more than a scattering of straw. The food is only fit to tempt those who cannot remember their last meal. The water is brackish and best taken sparingly. But none of that will be your primary concern."

"Vadim?" d'Artagnan asked astutely.

"Indeed," Athos agreed. "Treville will ensure you are placed with him alone rather than amidst the general population. But the guards will not be told of your true purpose so you will be shackled like any other prisoner. The bonds are heavy and cumbersome. It makes defending yourself harder than you might imagine."

"I understand," The image of Athos his torso marked with deep, vivid, bruises and his wrists rubbed red raw with unthinking callousness, rose in his mind. "I'll try not to attract too much attention."

"The guards that bothered me have been assigned to other duties," Athos spoke kindly as he easily read from his expression where d'Artagnan's thoughts had led. "Treville saw to that, personally. Hopefully, those that remain will learn by their fellows fate and not be quite as quick to abuse their power."

"That's good to know," d'Artagnan smiled at him, as he prepared to take his leave. "Thank you, for your time."

"The noise is quite relentless," Athos said suddenly. "If it is not the coming and going of the guards, or the chains of the inmates, it is sound of desperate men. Their cries can be .. quite distressing."

D'Artagnan's expression softened at this new evidence of Athos' depth of feeling. He looked at the man with shining respect. That a soldier, who had no reason to view the occupants of the Chatelet with anything but utter disdain, could still find it in his heart to feel compassion for their suffering seemed to him the epitome of true nobility. Not for the first time he wondered how a man of such obvious education and breeding had found his way to become to musketeer.

"I can see that would be hard," d'Artagnan nodded gravely. "I'll try to prepare myself."

Athos inclined his head in acceptance of that. He was pleased the boy was treating the mission with the seriousness it deserved. Realising there was something else he could do Athos reached down into his boot and pulled out a dagger. It was small enough to be easily concealed and would be missed in any cursory search. Yet the blade was a thin point of viciousness that could do significant damage at close quarters. Assuming d'Artagnan could get a hand to it, it might just give the boy an advantage if he found himself in danger.

"Take this."

D'Artagnan's eyes widened as he saw what Athos was offering. As well as being an effective weapon it was also a beautifully crafted piece, a gift from Aramis in the early days of their friendship, after Athos himself had had a very narrow escape after being captured. Seeing the way the Gascon's eyes grew damp as he thanked him, Athos realised with a pang just how much the boy relied on his good opinion. As d'Artagnan took his leave Athos felt the weight of a familiar hand settling approvingly on his shoulder. He did not need to look around to know it was Aramis.

"You're a good man, Athos."

"He's still not ready for this." Athos sighed.

"He volunteered."

"He's just lost his father, he's not thinking straight and he has no idea what he's letting himself in for," Athos ruthlessly pushed the image of honest, eager Thomas, to the back of his mind. "One of us should have done it. If d'Artagnan fails, their majesties will still be at risk and the boy will have died for nothing."

Aramis gripped the shoulder between his hand a little tighter in silent reassurance. He sincerely hoped Treville had not misjudged this. For all his bravery d'Artagnan was still something of an unknown quantity. If things ended badly Athos would take it hard indeed. And the news which came from the Chatelet overnight did nothing to soothe his concerns.

"It seems the guard on duty identified d'Artagnan to Vadim as a musketeer," Treville ran a hand across his face.

"What?" Athos' expression threatened dire retribution.

"As I understand it d'Artagnan complained about finding a mouse in his dinner, the guard lost his temper and proclaimed that the musketeer could starve for all he cared."

"So, all our efforts to slip d'Artagnan in as an ingénue are come to nothing?" Aramis summarised.

"Sounds about right," Porthos scowled.

"It may not be so bad," Treville corrected. "Apparently d'Artagnan was able to convince Vadim that the musketeers had betrayed him. He turned the situation to his advance and persuaded Vadim that they both had something in common Vadim having been incarcerated because the man he trusted to watch his back fell asleep."

"Clever," Porthos observed. "It might even work."

"And it might get him killed." Athos intoned darkly.

"The Queen leaves for the Chatelet shortly," The Captain met his Lieutenant's gaze squarely. "We'll know more when you've had a chance to speak with him."

The prison break out was unexpected to say the least. And d'Artagnan's rash actions in joining forces with Vadim meant that Treville had no answer when Athos asked him if he still thought the Gascon was the right man for the job. The Cardinal's complete disregard for d'Artagnan's welfare only raised the stakes. Athos back to the Garrison in tight lipped fury and then stalked off without waiting to be dismissed. Treville let him go, feeling the weight of command settling just a little heavier on his shoulders.

"I've already put the word out," Porthos was quick to reassure when Athos told them of the Cardinal's words. "Soon as anyone sees 'im or Vadim, we'll know."

"The boy has proved remarkably inventive so far," Aramis observed. "I wouldn't put it past him to find some way to contact us."

"He's a brave one, that's for sure," Porthos nudged a brooding Athos. "Did you see how he kept his cool when Vadim was threaten' to off the Queen?"

"Your point, gentlemen?" Athos glowered at them.

Most people would have the good sense to leave him alone when he was in this mood, but he knew his brothers well enough to know they weren't about to let this drop until they had imparted whatever wisdom they felt impelled to share with him.

"That boy was born to be a musketeer and he has a much better chance of surviving to achieve that destiny with your help than without it," Aramis met Athos' gaze meaningfully. "We both know what it is to find comfort in a soldier's duty when there seems nothing else. Would you deny him that?"

Athos had the grace to look away. He would always be grateful to Treville for pressing him to join the regiment when his life did not seem worth living. He had come to soldiering with the benefit of a rigorous education in the art of war and an older head on his shoulders, but equally reeling from grief and loss.

"I am hardly the most suitable role model for an impressionable youth." He managed.

"The boy has clearly decided differently," Aramis stepped up so he was face to face with Athos and laid a single hand on his cheek. "And, need I remind you my friend that you do not get to decide whether or not you are loved."

Athos closed his eyes briefly at those words, even as he reached up and covered Aramis' hand with his own, the warmth of that joined touch taking them both back to an earlier time and place. They had been taken captive some hours earlier but the men who had overpowered them had said nothing and answered no questions as they stripped them of their weapons, then locking them into a stall in an abandoned kennels. Aramis had never borne captivity especially well, so even after they had painstakingly established that there was no way to effect an escape, he continued to pace, keeping up a liturgy of meaningless comment to keep his anxiety at bay. Of his three companions, Renard began a fruitless attempt to loosen the iron bars on the small window, LeBrun pulled the rosary from around his neck and began to pray, his lips moving silently, Athos simply settled himself back against the wall and waited, only rising to his feet as the bolts on the door were drawn back and a man entered, his eyes cold and calculating.

From the first Aramis' stomach had clenched unpleasantly at the way Henri DuPont had looked at Athos as the musketeer had drawn himself up and met their captor's gaze with cool disdain, despite having his own musket held to his head. It came as an unpleasant surprise to realise that the man was no criminal, but a minor noble who ruled his lands like a despot. So intoxicated was he by his own power in this small corner so far from Paris that even the sight of the musketeers pauldrons left him unmoved.

"You have the speech and manner of a man of breeding. How is it that you find yourself serving the King as a mere solider?" DuPont challenged Athos.

"The King's musketeers are the finest soldiers in France," Athos evaded his question. "I would advise you to let us go before we are forced to prove that."

His reward was a fist to the stomach which bent him forward as it forced all the air from his lungs. But Athos never broke eye contact, holding DuPont's gaze even as he carefully straightened.

"You will answer my question." DuPont insisted.

Aramis felt his blood run cold. Athos never spoke of his past. Despite their months of service together Aramis had no idea if he had parents still living, if he had ever been married, not even which region of the country he came from. All he knew came from Athos' tortured nightmares. That there was a woman he had loved and a brother who had died. There was no chance Athos would share any part of his history with their captor. And there was something about DuPont's tone which had raised all the hairs on the back of Aramis' neck.

"There is nothing to tell," Athos appeared unmoved, but Aramis at least knew better than to take that at face value. Despite his inscrutable façade Athos had proved to be remarkably perceptive. "If its money you wish our weapons will fetch a good price. But you should know that our movements were well known. If we do not return safely our Captain will come looking. He is most determined man and he has the King's ear."

"I asked you a question," DuPont's expression darkened. A nod to the men beside him and one kicked Athos' legs out from under him so his knees hit the stone floor with a sickening force and another gripped his hair and forced his head back painfully. DuPont stepped in so he could look down on him. "And when I ask you a question, you will answer me. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly well, thank you."

Despite his predicament, Athos still managed to sound as if he was exchanging small talk with the ladies of the court. Aramis really rather admired that, although, he made a mental note to remind Athos of all the times the man had chided him for provoking their enemies without due cause. DuPont was unlikely to overlook the fact that Athos still had not answered his question. Even so, Aramis was not prepared for what happened next.

"Maybe his Lordship here wouldn't be so tight lipped if we lean on one of his mates," One of the henchmen suggested. "The sight of blood usually gets 'em talking."

"No," DuPont surprised them all and Aramis felt his fear grow. This was a man more inclined to madness than mercy. Whatever was coming he suspected it would be bad. And so it proved. "I do not wish him to be coerced. There would be no satisfaction in such an empty victory. Bring him."

Aramis felt a shock of fear and surprise run through him as two of the henchmen hauled Athos to his feet and began to all but drag him out of the room before he could so much as look in their direction. He surged forward, only to be met with a musket to the face and a vicious kick to his knee cap. And in the next instant the men and Athos were gone. Aramis vented his frustration in a few moments of ineffective shouting which did nothing to make him feel better or secure Athos' safe return. Then he did the only thing he could. He settled down to wait. It was little comfort that he could not hear any sounds of suffering. He knew Athos was the stoic type. In the months they had served together he had seen the man suffer all manner of pain and discomfort with little more than a raised eyebrow.

Athos had already been a far better friend than Aramis truly deserved. He had always been a little too wild to be entirely comfortable with authority. After Savoy he had become positively reckless. When Treville had placed the two of them together he'd wondered if the Captain had taken leave of his senses. But Athos' steady presence had been oddly calming. The man had rightly given him hell when he had risked his life or others. But then he had steadfastly placed himself between Aramis and Treville's wrath, even for the most suicidal of errors. Like an untamed colt being gentled with a knowing hand Aramis had gradually begun to trust in Athos. And then there was that night at the Inn.

The mission had been a simple errand, more an excuse for Treville to push them together than any real need for their talents with sword or musket. Unfortunately their destination was a full two days ride from Paris and the thin coating of snow on the ground made Aramis's skin prickle with memories of Savoy. He was so ridiculously grateful when they stopped for the night that he missed the flicker of unease that crossed Athos' face at the sight of the small, sparsely furnished room, with its one narrow bed.

He would know better now.

Aramis immediately set about removing his weapons and stripping down to his shirt and braies. The night was cold enough that his breath was visible in front of his face and the small fire in the grate was doing little to combat the fierce chill in the room, after a quick splash in cold water to remove the worst of the dirt from the day he hopped under the blankets. Only then did he realise that Athos had sat himself in the only chair and was drinking steadily from the half full bottle he had brought up from the tap room.

"Aren't you coming to bed?" He asked.

"Momentarily," Athos allowed, as he took another drink. "Do not let me detain you."

Aramis paused, his keen mind sure there was something he was missing. But he was also tired and cold and not comfortable enough with his own memories right now to risk probing anyone else's tonight. Settling down with a sigh as the warmth from the blankets began to seep into his body he gave into his exhaustion and succumbed to sleep.

"Aramis!" A voice called from far off. "Aramis!"

In his mind's eye he was in the forest in Savoy. He saw his brothers dying all around him. He heard their cries of pain. He felt hands reaching for him and he fought them with everything he had, knowing it was hopeless but still feeling a small surge of satisfaction when he managed to elicit a pain filled grunt from his assailant.

"René Aramis d'Herblay!"

Somewhere in the back of his mind Aramis finally recognised the voice as meaning safety. His confused brain first supplied a name to go with it, Athos. Then it realised that he was not lying on the cold, hard, ground, but a stiff, straw, mattress. After that it was a simple matter to realise that he was actually awake now and he should probably open his eyes. Except that the way that he could feel the gentle rise and fall of Athos' chest at his back, feel his arms wrapped securely around his torso and hear his voice talking steadily in his ear as he tried to bring him back to himself made that just a little awkward.

"Aramis?" Athos' voice sharpened.

"Yes," Aramis tried to pull away and straighten up, but to his surprise Athos held fast, even tightening his arms fractionally. "My apologies, it was just a dream. I am sorry I disturbed you."

"The snow made you uncomfortable." Athos surprised him with his insight.

"Yes." Aramis saw no point in denying it. "It was Savoy. I was dreaming of Savoy."

"Here," Athos uncurled one arm to reach across and pick up the bottle of wine. Part of Aramis' mind noted that it was two thirds full. Not the same bottle then. "Take a little. It will help."

Feeling absurdly grateful for the understanding tone it was only as he drank that Aramis registered the bone deep chill coming from Athos and the fact that the man was still fully dressed, even though the candle was now almost burned out. Not to mention that they were presently drinking at least his second bottle of wine.

"You weren't sleeping." He realised.

"No," Athos shifted slightly behind him. "I don't generally sleep well."

Aramis felt a sharp pang of emotion pierce his chest at the tone of loss in those words. Instinctively he turned his head, trying to catch a glimpse of Athos' expression. The man's features were largely in shadow, but Aramis could clearly see the dark bruise blossoming on his jaw. Sucking in a sharp breath of remorse, he wordlessly covered the hand Athos was resting lightly on his thigh with his own, in silent apology.

"Go back to sleep," Athos told him fondly, his other hand sliding through Aramis' curls in a gentle caress, like an elder brother soothing his younger sibling. "I shall not leave you."

Aramis felt a lump in his throat so large he could hardly draw breathe, tears stinging his eyes as Athos reached into his soul and so effortlessly identified his greatest fear and so effectively banished it. Linking their fingers together Aramis suppressed his own smile as he felt his body warmth leeching into Athos. Entwined together his last thought before he succumbed to sleep was how grateful he was that he had fallen in with this man and that just perhaps they could help each other.

It was two hours before Athos was returned.


	7. More Athos and Aramis bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos thinks he is doing the right thing in sacrificing himself. Aramis has other ideas.

When the door finally opened Aramis surged to his feet, anxious for his first glimpse of Athos. To his irritation his view was initially blocked by a trio of henchmen and when DuPont was finally revealed in the doorway he was quite alone. Aramis clenched his fists so tightly he could feel his nails biting into his skin. If Athos was dead DuPont was going to suffer.

"Gentlemen, I do hope my men have treated you well?" DuPont greeted them as cordially as if they were suddenly honoured guests at his table, rather than men who had been held prisoner in his abandoned dog kennels for the last few hours. "Rest assured that anyone who has shown you the least discourtesy will be severely punished. Please let me show you to accommodations more suited to your rank and status as an escort of King's musketeers."

"Has he completely lost his reason?" LeBrun murmured.

"Who cares if it means we can get out of this stinking hole?" Renard retorted, as he moved to follow.

"Did he just say an "escort" of musketeers?" Aramis had a very bad feeling about this. He knew most people saw Athos as the sensible, dependable sort, a man all about honour and duty. His skill with a sword was justly famed. But it was his unorthodox brilliance as a tactician which so often left their enemies reeling. Aramis had learned never to underestimate what Athos might be prepared to do in order to accomplish a mission. "Well, I'm sure this won't end badly."

"You don't think Athos ..?" LeBrun trailed off, looking worried.

"Honestly?" Aramis sighed. "I have no idea."

They were led towards the main house, glancing between themselves as they took in the broken windows in the stable block, the weeds growing up through the courtyard, the crumbling stone steps and patches of fallen plaster on the walls. As they entered the mansion and were conducted up flight after flight of stairs Aramis was automatically cataloguing the positions of the guards and potential escape routes. He glimpsed one room with its elaborately carved four poster that was obviously DuPont's own bedchamber. Aramis sniffed, he always believed any man who had to surround himself with that much ostentation was clearly compensating for something. At last they were shown into a shabby, but well-appointed, room up in the eaves with two small dormer windows. From the pictures on the wall it had clearly once been a nurse or governess' sitting room, there was a fire burning in the grate, a side table already laid with wine, cheese and breads, a pot of stew simmering over the fire, and a scattering of comfortable furniture.

"Do you think it's a trap?" Renard looked anxious. "Maybe the food is poisoned?"

"There are two guards on the only door, with two muskets apiece and a fall from the window would certainly kill you," LeBrun pointed out, despite the more salubrious surroundings they were clearly still prisoners. "I think if DuPont wished us dead there are simpler ways of accomplishing it."

"But just in case we'll let you eat first." Aramis grinned at him.

"There are things we could use as weapons," Renard pointed out eagerly. "We could throw the burning stew at the guards, or break the bottles and use the shards of glass to cut their throats. Or .."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Aramis raised a brow.

"There are always more guards?" Renard hazarded. "One of us might die in the attempt? The whole enterprise is futile if we can't find weapons and horses? DuPont has Athos at his mercy? We don't even know if Athos is still on the property?" He made a face. "All of the above? Perhaps, I didn't quite think it through."

"They're not bad ideas," Aarmis patted his shoulder consolingly. "Maybe later."

"Lord help us, I hadn't even thought of that last one." LeBrun murmured.

Aramis hadn't either. The thought that DuPont might have taken Athos elsewhere chilled him to the bone. Still he wasn't going to worry about it until he had no choice.

"Good thing Athos isn't here," He forced himself to sound cheerful as he checked the label on one of the two bottles of red. "There wouldn't be a hope of any wine for the rest of us if he was."

They ate enough to keep their strength up, tried to get a little rest and resolutely did not talk about where Athos might be or what might be happening to him. After the trials of the day Renard swiftly fell asleep sprawled bonelessly across one of the couches and LeBrun was soon snoring quietly in one of the armchairs. Aramis alone maintained his vigil, his eyes fixed on the door.

The figure that eventually appeared bore little resemblance to the man that had been taken from them two hours previously. Flanked by two henchmen, Athos stood as straight and tall as if on parade, his usual inscrutable expression giving nothing away. But to Aramis' astonishment he was dressed in a richly embroidered doublet teamed with a lace trimmed concoction of a shirt, a pair of black breeches and he now wore soft velvet gloves. Most strikingly his face had been dusted with chalk power and his colour heightened with a touch of Spanish paper after the manner of the court.

"In you go, yer Lordship."

One of the henchmen pushed Athos hard on the shoulder, causing him to stumble forward and land heavily on his hands and knees. For a heartbeat Athos did not move, his head hung low and his arms trembling with the effort of supporting his own body. But as the door slammed shut behind him he began to slowly lever himself to his feet.

"Athos."

Aramis rushed forward intent on taking his arm to help, only to have his hand shaken off with a pointed glare.

"I can manage, thank you."

Aramis blinked, the words were stiff with formality, as if he was a servant who had overstepped his bounds. Regrouping he went to the table and poured a glass of wine and brought it back to where Athos had perched on the edge of the couch, feet on the floor and back so straight it put Aramis in mind of his sisters' deportment lessons. Perhaps it was the clothes. In different circumstances Aramis might have been amused by the notion that Athos' habitual slouching was an act of deliberate rebellion against the manners learnt in his own childhood.

"Here," He offered the glass.

To his astonishment Athos barely glanced at it, or him.

"Thank you, but no."

"Athos, you've been gone for hours," Never let it be said that Aramis was easily rebuffed, even as he set the wine aside. "At least take a few bites of food. There's a particularly good Brie I think you'd enjoy?"

Athos shot him a slightly surprised look which clearly said he had not expected the other man to remember his favourite cheese. Aramis rolled his eyes. This was the man who would march through a Parisian brothel without blinking and haul him out by the scruff of the neck because he had overslept and then lie to Trevillle about the reason for their tardiness, but any small overtures of friendship on Aramis' part were greeted with mild astonishment. Remembering how he had felt when he thought Athos dead, Aramis sat down beside him and gripped his shoulder fiercely.

"Your company was sorely missed, my friend." He vowed.

With a distinctly pained look Athos pointedly moved out from under his grip and shifted until there was clear distance between them. Aramis felt as if he had been struck. Athos' dislike of casual physical intimacy was well known but he and Porthos had become very much the exception to that rule, the two of them engaging in friendly completion to encourage that little quirk of his lips that was Athos for smiling or the way his eyes softened when he was particularly pleased by something. Aramis' stricken look must have stirred Athos' conscience somewhat because he cleared his throat awkwardly.

"I fear DuPont wouldn't agree, he found my company somewhat lacking. Although to be fair I also found him to be a less than genial host."

"You would say, if he hurt you?" Aramis enquired carefully.

"Of course." Athos' bland response discouraged any further discourse on that matter.

"So, does your present attire have something to do with DuPont's new found hospitality?" Aramis tried to keep his tone light. Seeing Athos without his pauldron was unsettling. He vividly remembered the day his friend had received his commission. He could not imagine he would have surrendered it easily. "Or is this new fashion simply the whim of a man teetering on the edge of madness?"

Athos suddenly looked a little shamefaced, as if he had actually forgotten what he was wearing, Aramis found that oddly endearing. In truth he could not imagine a man less suited to the pomp and frippery of court fashion than Athos.

"DuPont hopes for a ransom," Athos sighed. "This estate is not in good repair and the costs of maintaining such a retinue and furnishing so many men with weapons would be a heavy burden on any man's coffers. He is lured by the prospect of easy riches."

"Treville is a fine Captain but he is first and foremost a solider of the Crown. To give in to Dupont's demands would put a price on the head of every man in the regiment. We would all be targets for kidnap and ransom each time we left the Garrison." Aramis worried.

"Indeed," Athos agreed. "But DuPont has no interest in lowly musketeers. He is obsessed with the idea that I have the wealth and status to oblige him."

"Do you have anyone who would meet a ransom demand for you?" Aramis asked carefully.

"None living." Athos said dryly.

"Ah," Aramis made a face. "So, unless DuPont is content to be paid in barrels of honey brandy, this is going to get interesting."

"I have told him that I will pay. It is merely a convenient ruse to ensure news of his activities reaches Treville's ears. I have no intention of actually meeting his demands," Athos paused. Almost in spite of himself he raised a curious brow. "Honey brandy?"

"My father's only legacy," Aramis explained. "He produced it. We were always comfortable but I have a large number of sisters. All of his money went on securing their dowries. It was always expected that I would make my own way in the world."

"Many would envy you that freedom. I always wanted to be a soldier but my father would not hear of it," Athos sighed.

"Really?" Aramis perked up. That was a story he would love to hear, Athos as a rebellious youngster. Somehow he had never imagined Athos as anything but dutifully obedient as a child. Although, the way he was frequently prepared to try Treville's patience did rather suggest otherwise. "Do tell?"

Athos seemed not to have heard him, abruptly he stood up and crossed to the table, picking up one of the bottles of wine and gulping down almost half in one go, inexplicably grimacing as if it was vinegar rather than a good burgundy. The opportunity for fond reminisces was past and he was all business again.

"DuPont's men's loyalty sensibly does not extend to placing themselves in musketeer hands. Therefore he has agreed that the three of you should return to Paris under the guise of delivering the ransom note. The road between here and Paris is long and dangerous and he does not want to risk one or two of you being overtaken by bandits before his demands can be met. Appraise Treville of DuPont's activities and await his orders. Given DuPont's status no doubt he will have to consult with the King."

"That's your plan?" Aramis was on his feet and crossing over to the table to confront Athos before he had even thought about it. "That we just leave you here?"

"DuPont must be stopped," Athos would not look at him. "He has clearly been terrorising the people of this district for some time. Treville will convince the King that his atrocities cannot stand. As long as he has hopes of riches I will be quite safe until you return."

"You don't know that," Aramis' voice was dangerously calm. "The man is clearly unstable. It will take days to reach Paris and even longer to return with a full company of men. Not to mention how long it could take for the King to agree to DuPont's arrest."

"Nonetheless," Infuriatingly Athos stood with his back turned, as if Aramis' concerns were beneath his notice. "You have your orders."

"Orders be dammed," Determined to make his point Aramis spun Athos around, seizing him by the lapels of his doublet as he shook him firmly before pressing him up against the wall. "This plan is suicide. What am I supposed to tell Porthos? Have you not realised that he loves you like a brother? Would you repay that loyalty by causing him to weep at your funeral? And you taught me to trust again when I thought I could not after Savoy. What kind of brother would you be to turn your back on me now?"

"I am not fit to be any man's brother!" Athos retorted hotly. "My brother put all his trust in me and he died because of it. I will not allow that to happen to you!"

"And I am not Marsec to abandon you here and leave you to die!" Aramis retorted.

"Aramis, stop this!" LeBrun was suddenly beside him, his tone sharp with disapproval, Renard hovering at his shoulder ready to intervene. "You're hurting him."

Aramis blinked. Athos had indeed gone as white as a sheet, sweat standing out in beads of pain on his forehead and actual tears in his eyes. Aramis felt his blood run cold. DuPont clearly had hurt him and badly too, and Aramis had not only been blind to his injuries, he had now added to his pain. Utterly mortified, Aramis could not even meet Athos' eyes as he turned away. Pacing frantically he ran his hands through his hair as he issued his instructions to LeBrun.

"Any open wounds will need to be washed out with wine. His ribs may need binding. I have needle and thread if anything is deep enough to require it."

"Do you always carry needle and thread about your person?" Renard's voice asked curiously.

"And salve," Aramis nodded distractedly. "Each item is small enough to evade all but the most rigorous of searches and a stitch in time has saved many a life."

"And what should I do for burns?" LeBrun enquired.

"Burns?"

Aramis spun around to see that LeBrun had guided Athos to straddle a plain wooden chair. The velvet gloves had been removed to reveal three broken fingers and two missing nails. No wonder Athos had struggled to hold either wine glass or bottle. Renard had been pressed into service to carefully wipe the paint from Athos' face, revealing the stark pallor of total exhaustion below. The two spots of fever explained why he had been so reluctant to let Aramis touch him. LeBrun had also removed his shirt and doublet and Aramis' eyes widened as he saw, not the welts of a beating as he had expected, but back and shoulders littered with burns, red and blistered circles and trails of molten liquid, a precise deliberate cruelty, the product of a truly evil mind.

"DuPoint was minded to send only one of us to Paris, wasn't he?" He realised quietly. "You held out and refused to agree to pay him anything until you had secured the release of all three of us."

"I am your leader. It is my duty and my privilege to protect those under my command by any means possible."

Aramis pressed his lips together tightly. He wondered exactly what Athos had been prepared to reveal in order to spare their lives. He was certainly astute enough to have told DuPont a convenient lie. But he was also sufficiently honourable to have chosen to give proof of his actual identity in order to be certain of their freedom.

"Although," Athos gave him a rueful look. "If you could kindly forebear from mentioning when you report to Treville that it required me to have my face painted like a dowager Duchess I would be obliged."

"That's the part that concerns you?"

Suddenly unable to speak Aramis clumsily wrapped his arms around Athos' head and embraced it fiercely against his chest, dropping a firm kiss on his curls.

"You are a most remarkable man."

With a nod of thanks to LeBrun he swiftly moved between Athos and the table collecting wine and napkins, apologising for his rash actions with each soothing touch as he carefully splinted the broken fingers by binding them to their neighbours, washed out the raw wounds left by missing nails with wine before gently covering them, then used his long elegant fingers to smooth cooling salve in small, careful, circles, across each of the thirty six separate burns on Athos' back. When he was finally done Athos stood up carefully and reached out a shaking hand to put the shirt forced upon him by DuPont back on.

"No," Aramis' hand gently closed over his wrist. "Take mine."

Athos stood stock still as Aramis shrugged out of his jacket and pulled his own shirt over his head. Swiftly concertinaing it in his hands, he slipped the neck hole over Athos' head and helped him place one arm and then the other in the billowing sleeves, before drawing it carefully down his abused back. Athos tipped his head back slightly, taking a shuddering breath as the soft linen, with its scents of spice and safety, still warm from Aramis' body, made him feel like someone truly valued for the first time since Thomas had died.

"Can you manage a few mouthfuls of stew?" Aramis asked kindly.

Athos was largely unmoved by the prospect of further scars on his back. But Aramis could see the relief in his eyes when he assured him that, once properly healed, his hands would be perfectly fit to wield a sword with his usual precision. But for now the damage was a serious hindrance. They tried with Athos attempting to balance the spoon across his palm, then cupping the bowl between his hands. In the end Aramis simply took over bowl and spoon and distracted him with a story about his first meeting with Porthos as he encouraged him to eat. Athos managed about half a bowl before exhaustion over took him.

"Ar'mis?"

The slightly slurred call stopped Aramis rather guiltily in his tracks. Having settled Athos on the couch he had assumed he was already asleep.

"Er, yes?"

"Your word, if you please, that you will return to Paris in the morning?"

Aramis didn't hesitate. After what Athos had suffered for all their sakes there really was only one answer he could give. He nodded once.

"Of course."

"And Aramis?" One baleful eye regarded him steadily. "Do not do anything reckless."

"Athos," Aramis rolled his eyes. "Please."

The thin dawn light was streaming through the windows when Athos awoke. He had slept far better than he could have imagined. It was no doubt merely a measure of his exhaustion and nothing to do with the sense of security provided by Aramis' cosseting.

"Good morning," Aramis' voice greeted him, sounding overly cheerful. "And what a beautiful morning it is."

Athos turned his head to see Aramis lounging in the armchair beside him, sporting a clean shirt, inspecting what appeared to be a newly acquired arquebus, and wearing an extremely self-satisfied expression. Looking around he realised that the two of them were alone on the room.

"What's going on?" Athos sat up a little faster than was truly wise, resolutely ignoring the flare of pain across his back. "Where are the others?"

"They've gone down to the stables to saddle the horses. We'll be leaving for Paris as soon as everything is ready," Aramis explained blithely. "Oh, and did I mention that DuPont is dead?"

"Aramis," Athos drew out his name in that way that either meant he was extremely impressed or absolutely furious. "What exactly did you do?"

"Have you ever noticed when people are guarding a building how infrequently they think to look up?"

It had been a tight squeeze to fit through the narrow dormer window. And scrambling across the roof and between the leads had been a little daunting, but the rope that they had fashioned from the curtain cords and drapes held fast to land him on a convenient balcony. Moving silent as a ghost it had been a simple matter break in through the window and make his way back to DuPont's bedchamber. Silencing the guard on his door by knocking him senseless, he had relieved him of his weapons and pressed a knife to DuPont's throat before he woke him.

"Do you make a habit of escaping out of windows?" Athos enquired mildly. "I merely ask to satisfy my curiosity?"

"It wasn't my first time." Aramis admitted modestly.

He chose not to tell Athos how he had lounged against the bedpost knife in one hand and musket in the other, whilst DuPont lay bound and helpless, ruminating on how exactly he was going to kill him and just how much it might hurt. He had deliberately drawn the moment out, wanting DuPont to feel a little of the agony his had inflicted on his friend. Nor did he mention any of the things DuPont had insinuated about Athos, his character or his lineage. It had taken all of his will power not to give the man a slow, agonising death by shooting him in the stomach, only the certain knowledge that a shot would raise the alarm more quickly than he could return to Athos to ensure he was safe, stayed his hand. Even as he slit his throat he felt it was a mercy DuPont did not deserve.

"And what happened after you had killed him?" Athos could not quite believe he had slept through all of this.

"Once Dupont was dead his men showed their true loyalty by ransacking his property of whatever they could carry and heading for the hills. We pretty much have the place to ourselves."

"They left us some breakfast I see." Athos observed.

Aramis grinned broadly. He knew there was a reason he loved this man so fiercely.

"You might want to get dressed first. Our saddle bags are in the corner and I found these."

Athos' expression when Aramis produced his own weapons, boots, breeches, jacket and even his hat was as vulnerable as Aramis had ever seen him. Not trusting himself to speak Athos merely nodded his thanks, as he slowly began to change, each familiar item gradually bringing him a little more back to himself.

"Don't forget this."

Athos turned to see Aramis holding his pauldron in his hands, an impossibly fond smile gracing his handsome features. Reluctantly he shook his head.

"This was all on me. DuPont's fascination with me led you all into danger. My faults are my own. I would never wish that my actions would bring Treville's judgment in recruiting a man like me into question or dishonour to the regiment. But perhaps I was a fool to think it could be otherwise. I will advise Treville of my decision to resign my commission as soon as we return to Paris."

"You will do nothing of the sort," Aramis chided, as he stepped forward, continuing to speak as he slid the pauldron up Athos' arm and buckled it securely into place with deft, careful, movements. "Firstly, we're musketeers, danger is our life blood. Secondly, I for one have no wish to face Treville if you decide to resign. You are fast becoming his favourite and he will undoubtedly find some way to make it my fault. Thirdly, you are my brother now. Mine and Porthos' You don't get away from us that easily."

"You must have questions," Athos could not look at him. "Ask whatever you wish. I will answer fully."

There was a great deal Aramis wanted to know. Not least why such a good man felt he had so much to atone for. Or how a man clearly raised to some great responsibility had found his way to be a lowly musketeer. But looking at Athos he knew a single question, any hint that this endeavour had eroded his faith in him, and he would be lost to him for ever.

"No, not a one," He spoke brightly.

Athos head came up sharply at that. When Aramis saw the raw hope warring with shocked disbelief in his eyes he knew he had made the right decision. He would not ask and he would ensure LeBrun and Renard did not ask either.

"If you ever wish to talk I will be a willing ear but I already know everything I need to about the type of man you are," Aramis allowed, as he slipped a hand around Athos' neck and squeezed firmly. "And I love you for it."

"And yet you should not," Athos looked him straight in the eye. "I am not worthy of such."

"Athos, my brother," Aramis moved his hand to place it on Athos' cheek. "I will follow your orders in all other things. But you do not get to decide whether or not you are loved."

After a moment's hesitation, Athos covered Aarmis' hand with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm quite taken with the idea of Athos struggling to ask for comfort but feeling cosseted by wearing his friends clothes. Like a sort of permanent hug. I think its going to be a bit of thing.
> 
> Surprising difficult to write the boys not instinctively knowing what the other was up and to take into account that whatever Athos may, (or may not), have told DuPont Aramis cannot know for certain who he is until "Commodities" I sincerely hope it works for you all in the end!
> 
> Spanish paper is a sort of rouge according to a most interesting website I found on 17thC makeup.


	8. Slight of Hand missing scenes and tag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan defeats Vadim and doesn't feel as good as he hoped. Athos speaks actual words. Porthos sees something very important and doesn't realise it.

Athos blinked as a plate of fresh bread with a generous slice of brie appeared in his line of vision. It had been hours since the break out from the Chatelet and darkness had fallen with no word of d'Artagnan. Porthos had worked tirelessly traipsing the back streets of Paris, using both threats and promises to try and secure any clue, but either his network of contacts had genuinely seen or heard nothing, or they were too scared of Vadim to cross him.

"You need to eat," Aramis slid into the seat beside him. "None of us will be any good to the boy if we're faint with hunger when the time comes to fight."

"And if Vadim has already dumped his body in the Seine?" Athos gave him a dark look. "What help will we be to him then?"

"Athos, my friend, this is me. Despite your best efforts at being moody and unapproachable you cannot deny you've been impressed with the boy's spirit," Aramis leant forward to snag a piece of bread from Athos' plate. "He may yet surprise us all."

"He's far too impetuous for his own good," Athos huffed, although, Aramis did have a point. "But I suppose if we haven't the least idea what he's thinking then neither will Vadim. I'll admit he's not quite what I expected from a Gascon farm boy."

Even more pertinently d'Artagnan might be the exact age his brother would have been had he lived and share Thomas' compassion, but there was a steel and tenacity in him that his gentle brother had not possessed.

"You never speak of Thomas," Aramis read his thoughts easily as he broke the bread in two and held half of it under Athos nose until he reluctantly began to eat. "If I should die, I would want you to tell everyone stories of my bravery, how handsome I was, not to mention my charming personality."

"Thomas was not as vain as you." Athos said dryly.

"But still," Aramis spoke gently. "He was your brother and he loved you dearly. And yet everything I know about Thomas comes from young Phillipe."

"You needed a new mount," Athos reminded him. "Something reliable enough to carry you into battle if need be. Phillipe knows more about horseflesh than anyone else I know, that is all."

"There was a bit more to it than that," Aramis countered gently. "Phillipe was Thomas' childhood friend and you put aside your own pain to take Porthos and I to Beauvais to ensure that I had the best horse money could buy. Because, my dear Athos, that is the sort of brother you have always been."

Aramis knew that he should feel at least a little guilty that he had told Treville nothing about their trip to Beauvais when their Captain had clearly suspected something. But the visit had been such an overwhelming act of love and trust on Athos' part that Aramis had been loath to betray his confidence even to the Captain.

"When I write to Phillipe I always tell him how his mare continues to thrive under your care and that she has done her duty admirably in keeping you safe," Athos spoke quietly. "I could ask for no better outcome."

"Athos, everything should not be .."

Whatever else Aramis might have said was cut off when the familiar figure of Constance Bonacieux hastened into the courtyard. She looked around anxiously, until her gaze fell on Athos and she hurried over.

"D'Artagnan says you are to come as soon as possible," She shot a scathing look at Aramis. "Unless, you are still prepared to abandon him to his fate?"

"Is he safe?" Athos was already on his feet.

Athos was impressed that d'Artagnan had thought to cast Madame Bonacieux as his mistress to send word. It was exactly the sort of ploy a man like Vadim would believe. Also with how the boy was all business, focused on the task in hand, rather than angling for praise. When d'Artagnan looked him in the eye and asked for his trust it was no co-incidence that he clapped him on the right shoulder where one day a musketeer's pauldron might stand.

Still, with the boy remaining a wanted fugitive the Red Guards were an ever present danger. Rushing to d'Artagnan's aid in the alley he was initially simply relieved to find him safe and his two would be assailants dead at his feet. He wasn't sure if sending Porthos to watch his back was more for the boy's comfort or his own.

"That's curious." Aramis' tone caught his attention. "This one was brought down by a blade," He turned one of the corpses over with his foot. "And that one was shot from behind. Does that sound like our little Gascon?"

"Given that he was unarmed, not particularly," Athos frowned.

The two experienced soldiers exchanged a telling look recognising by the way the wounds were placed and how the bodies had fallen that there was only one possible conclusion.

"Neither of these men were killed by d'Artagnan." Athos observed.

"I didn't think he knew anyone else in Paris," Aramis did not try to hide his surprise. "Much less anyone who could kill with this kind of precision."

"No," Athos shared his concern. "Neither did I."

After everything they had learnt about how dangerous a foe Vadim was, the man's particular fondness for the dramatic, coupled with finding blood in the cellar, Athos had fully expected when they cornered him that he would boast of killing d'Artagnan. The explosion that almost did for him and Porthos did nothing to fuel any hope Athos had that they might actually find the boy alive. To learn that he had not only survived but fatally wounded Vadim was particularly gratifying.

"He's a mite quiet," Porthos' brow wrinkled, as they stood on the banks of the Seine, watching as Aramis' careful hands probed the bleeding wound on the young Gascon's head. "You'd think he'd be crowing about taking down a man like Vadim pretty much singlehanded."

"Indeed." Athos murmured. The boy had every right to be preening at his success in killing one of the crown's most dangerous enemies. That he was not demonstrated an unexpected level of maturity, although the despondent set of his shoulders was cause for concern.

"What happened here?"

The note of alarm in Aramis' voice instantly caught their attention. They swiftly crossed to d'Artagnan's side as Aramis tugged up d'Artagnan's sleeves to reveal the raw marks of rope burns. The boy looked away, hot colour burning his cheeks as he refused to answer even as Aramis reached into his jacket for his ever present pot of ointment and began applying the healing salve to the raw marks.

"Treville will expect the truth." Athos warned, his own concern making his tone sterner than he intended.

"I know," D'Artagnan bit his lip, looking the picture of misery. "You were right, I wasn't ready for this."

"Really?" Athos enquired, his bland tone giving not the slightest indication of his own conflicting emotions. "How so?"

When all an obviously exhausted d'Artagnan could manage was to stare steadfastly at his feet and not answer it was testament to the bond between these three men that all it took was a covert shake of Aramis' head and a lift of Athos' eyebrow in Porthos' direction, for a surprisingly gentle arm to be wrapped firmly around the young Gascon's shoulders.

"C'mon," Porthos encouraged. "What you need is some strong drink and a good feed everything'll seem right as rain after that."

Torn between duty and sentiment, Athos hesitated, but when the tilt of Aramis' head asked the silent question he sighed and indicated that he would remain behind. Someone had to see that Vadim's body was secured and given how closely this matter had touched the King Treville would be waiting impatiently to be appraised of developments. He trusted his brothers implicitly to ensure d'Artagnan was well taken care of.

"We'll be in the Swan, when you're done." Aramis nodded his understanding. "Don't be too long. You had a hard time of things last night too."

By the time Athos had tied up all the loose ends, made his report to Treville and finally made it to the Swan the table was covered with empty plates and a couple of empty bottles. As he sank wearily into a chair he winced at the reminder of his numerous bruises. He was grateful beyond words when the serving girl, clearly primed by his friends to expect his arrival, brought a tray with another cup, a fresh bottle of wine and a bowl of surprisingly good rabbit stew.

"How is he?" He murmured to Porthos.

"Nothing that won't heal in a day or two, it's his pride that's hurt the most. Vadim knowing he was a spy all long has got him all down in the dumps. Tied him to those barrels of gun power he used to blow the Palace. But he got himself free and used Vadim's own trick of making 'im look the other way to run him through. Pretty clever I'd say."

"Indeed." Athos tipped his head on one side and managed to catch Aramis' eye.

"D'Artagnan, I've been meaning to ask," Aramis, scooted his chair a little closer to the table as he spoke as if it was of no consequence. "How did you manage to deal with those two Red Guards in the ally?"

"Oh, that wasn't me," d'Artagnan felt obliged to admit the truth, although his pride baulked at admitting it was a woman. He had already had Constance coming to his rescue at the Garrison he did not what these men to think he actually did need a woman to save him. "This figure just came out of no-where and killed them both before I could act. They wanted to know where Vadim was. They said they had a powerful patron and I could have all the riches and power I desired if I took them to him."

"An agent of the Cardinal, perhaps?" Aramis suggested.

"Sounds like the sort of thing he'd get up to," Porthos agreed. "Although, Vadim had a lot of enemies, word is Suzette Pinault's been murdered. She was found choked to death. Someone mostly likely wanted to keep her quiet about whatever she knew."

"Did this man say anything else that might prove enlightening?" Athos enquired.

D'Artagnan didn't bother to correct the assumption that it was a man. He was too busy trying to control the flush he could feel creeping up his neck at the thought of her lips almost touching his, her hands caressing him and the seductive tone of her voice as she spoke of their night together. She had killed a man in cold blood and tried to frame him for the murder. She had put her knife, a knife that had just killed a man, to his throat before she disappeared. She should make his flesh creep. He couldn't explain, even to himself, why he found her so intoxicating.

"Nothing of any consequence," He managed. "They fled when they heard Athos calling my name."

Nor did he see any reason to tell them that she had warned him against throwing in his lot with the musketeers. He didn't want to give them any more reason to think that he wasn't a worthy candidate for the regiment. His own failings had surely already done that. He was dreading having to explain to Treville how he had been so thoroughly duped. No doubt he would be sent straight back to Gascony his dreams of becoming a Musketeer in tatters. Surging to his feet, he barely managed a mumbled apology, knocking over his chair in his haste to get outside. As soon as the stench of the street hit him in the face, he bent double, surrendering to a wave of nausea. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, emptying the contents of his stomach into the dirt, before a firm hand took him by the shoulders and guided him to a nearby bench.

"Sit," A voice said, not unkindly. "Take steady breaths."

"I'm alright," d'Artagnan tipped his head back a little. "I'm alright."

"No, you're not," Athos informed him without censor, settling beside him. "But you will be."

"Sorry," Somehow d'Artganan found the strength to look at him. "I'm so sorry. Vadim set me up. All the time I thought I was helping he was just using me. He gave me the map and some coin to buy wine as if I was his errand boy and idiot that I was I did exactly as he wished."

"Any of us would have done the same," Athos consoled. "For a moment we all looked the other way. You are no more to blame in that respect than any of us. Even Treville was convinced the plot was genuine."

"Because he trusted me, he believed me, but I let him down," d'Artagnan berated himself. "And I let you down. You tried to tell me I was in over my head and I wouldn't listen."

"I thought my heart would stop when I found blood in that cellar." Athos said after a long moment.

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan thought guiltily of the brother Athos had lost. The one he wasn't supposed to know about. "I never meant to make you worry. You did everything you could to keep me safe. If Vadim had killed me it would have been no-one's fault but my own."

"And yet you kept your head, not only were you able to effect an escape but you used his own tactics against him to run him through," Athos praised, re-enforcing his words with an unexpected squeeze to the nape of d'Artagnan's neck. The comforting weight of his hand made the Gascon suck in a ragged breath as he felt the warmth of that approval all the way down to his toes. "None of us could have done any better."

"Waking up tied to barrels of gun power was quite motivating," D'Artagnan smiled a little bitterly. "I told Vadim it didn't matter what happened to me because I had already told you everything. Once I realised it was all a trick I knew I had to get out of there and warn you all. I couldn't bear the fact that any of you might be harmed because I'd been so blind."

"That's what you were thinking about when you were tied to barrels of gunpowder?" Athos enquired.

He knew it was ridiculous to feel pride when he had done everything he could to avoid training the boy and to prevent d'Artagnan taking this mission. The boy's admirable qualities were all his own. And yet Athos could not help but wonder what such remarkable potential might become with the right training.

"I should never have let myself be in that position in the first place," D'Artagnan berated himself. "A true musketeer would have been more careful."

"Did you know that thanks to Vadim's machinations Porthos and I were almost blown to bits," Athos said conversationally. "And that Aramis quite lost sight of his wits and threw himself on top of a bomb."

"I'd be dead now if it wasn't for Athos, here," Porthos' voice put in, as he cast Athos a fond look. "His quick thinking saved both our lives. The trick ain't avoiding danger, but finding ways to survive, that's what makes you stronger."

D'Artagnan looked up to see that both Aramis and Porthos had followed them outside and were standing just a short distance away regarding them with twin indulgent expressions. D'Artagnan blushed hotly as he realised that not only was Athos' hand was still resting comfortingly on his neck but that he did not seem inclined to remove it anytime soon.

"Did you really throw yourself on a bomb?" He asked Aramis with a touch of awe.

"It was something of an emergency," Aramis came forward and nudged Athos slightly to make him move up so he could slide in beside him on the bench. "And it turned out to be faulty, so, there was no harm done."

"You didn't know it was a dud," Porthos' tone suggested he wasn't remotely placated as he squeezed himself in, on the other side next to d'Artagnan, so that they were sitting four abreast. "I swear if you ever do anything that stupid again I'll kill you myself."

"Duly noted," Aramias acknowledged, before continuing in a lofty tone. "Next time I will ignore my fealty to their Majesties, my loyalty to the regiment, my obedience to the Captain's orders, .."

"As I recall, Treville told you not to do it," Athos interjected dourly. "Although, I can see how you might have become confused. You do have a disconcerting tendency to believe that "No, Aramis." actually means "by all means carry on with your suicidal plan."

"You see what I have to put up with?" Aramis huffed at d'Artagnan, before he sobered his eyes suddenly so sharp and knowing that d'Artagnan struggled to hold his gaze. "A career as a Musketeer is not without risks d'Artagnan. We have all had our brushes with disaster, you could have surrendered to your fate, but you chose to live. That takes both courage and strength. Believe me, I know."

"What we are all trying to say is that you have the makings of a fine musketeer," Athos moved his grip to the back of d'Artagnan's jacket and hauled him to his feet. The other two automatically fell into step beside them as they made their way down the street. "Do not doubt your capabilities. Your only fault was a lack of training and I would gladly remedy that, if you are still willing to grant me that honour?"

D'Artagnan stopped walking so suddenly, Aramis nearly barrelled into the back of him.

"Of course, if you would prefer to choose another," Athos spoke stiffly, mistaking his surprise for rejection. "You may count on my full support with Treville."

"The Captain is still insisting that I find someone to sponsor my training," d'Artagnan gave him a lopsided smile, full of fondness. "I suppose I could always ask Aramis?"

Athos supposed he deserved that. Still, he arranged his features into an appropriate expression of disdain. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

"Or perhaps Porthos might oblige?" d'Artagnan said brightly.

"Are you trying to get me to hurt you?" Athos challenged.

With a soft smile gracing his features d'Artagnan did his best to put all of his gratitude and affection into his expression as he shyly gripped his Athos' arm. The man was the most respected soldier in the entire regiment. He knew how frequently the younger recruits sought out his experience and advice. He felt honoured beyond words that Athos would offer him, not only his skill, but also his friendship.

"Thank you." He closed his eyes tight. He was tired and sore and utterly drained but he was not going to cry. "Thank you so much."

When Athos lightly covered his hand with his own and squeezed gently it was almost his undoing.

"Right, bed time for you, my friend," Pothos clapped him fondly on the back. "You look done in."

"But it's only the middle of the day," D'Artagnan protested as his eyes popped open, despite his exhaustion, feeling ridiculously like a child sent to bed early. "Don't I need to go to the Garrison? Treville be expecting my report."

"It can wait. Vadim will be just as dead tomorrow," Aramis quipped. "The first rule of being a good musketeer is to take your rest when you can. You never know when the next set of orders might arrive."

"Except, I can't go back to the Bonacieux's," d'Artagnan groaned. "He still thinks I'm a wanted fugitive."

"We'll take care of it," Aramis assured him. "Athos will be icily aloof. I will be utterly charming. And Porthos will be politely deadly. By the time we are done with Monsieur Bonacieux you will be the hero of the hour."

"Just him?" d'Artagnan looked crestfallen. "I mean, don't you think we owe Constanc .. I mean Madame Bonacieux our apologies as well? She should be there too."

"Do you think so?" Aramis considered that as he slipped a companionable arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders. "Women are generally rather appreciative when I kiss them. They don't require apologies. Perhaps, your technique needs some work?"

"My technique?" d'Artagnan spluttered.

"Think we need to separate 'em?" Porthos chortled quietly from behind.

"More likely knock their heads together," Athos rolled his eyes. "Remind me again why I thought taking the boy on would a good idea?"

"Too much wine," Porthos grinned at him knowingly. "And a soft heart."

As Aramis has predicted a few well-placed words were all it took to quell any objections from Bonacieux. Still as the three musketeers took their leave Porthos' could not help but notice the stiff set of Athos' shoulders. With a knowing sigh he tangled a hand in those wild curls and tugged him a little closer.

"He weren't hurt that badly," He reminded. "A lump on the head, a few bruises, some skin rubbed off his wrists, nothing life threatenin' for all that you're just aching to tuck 'im into bed."

"I know," Athos admitted. "He'll be perfectly fine I'm sure."

"Except for the fact that the boy is utterly friendless in Paris, has only recently lost his father and has been through something of an ordeal," Aramis observed. "What?" He protested, when Porthos glared at him. "One of us should be with him. Obviously, it can't be me I've already been slapped twice today."

"And it can't be me," Athos looked conflicted. "I've put Bonacieux in his place twice already. If I go back he will doubtless complain to the Cardinal about harassment which will embarrass Treville."

"Well, I can do it," Porthos shrugged. "I can be in and out of d'Artagnan's window before anyone but the whelp knows I was there."

And so it was, with the hope in Athos' eyes and the approval in Aramis' expression lingering in his mind's eye that he found himself perched on the edge of d'Artagnan's narrow bed, a broad palm settling soothingly on his forehead as the lad thrashed in the throws of an obvious nightmare.

"Easy now," He soothed, one large thumb caressing a vulnerable temple. "You're alright."

"P'rthos?" d'Artagnan blinked up at him. "What are you doing here?"

"Athos is a worry wart, Aramis always thinks we're hiding injuries from him and I wanted to be sure you got a good night's rest, take your pick?" Porthos suggested, even as he shrugged off his boots and jacket and shoved d'Artagnan over so he could fit in beside him, wrapping a comforting arm around his shoulders, pulling the Gascon's head down onto his shoulders. "There now, that's better isn't it?"

"Depends," d'Artagnan observed, even as he pressed his side a little closer against Porthos. "Do you snore?"

"Ah ha, what's this then?" Porthos grinned as he looked up and noticed the small posy of blue flowers tied with a ribbon to the headboard. "Looks like the lovely Madame Bonacieux is sweet on you."

"She's married," d'Artagnan reminded him. "They're .. from someone else."

"Oh hey, gone and got yourself an admirer have you?"

"It's nothing really," D'Artagnan could feel himself blushing. "Just a .. token."

"Mattered enough for you to hold onto it," Porthos observed not unkindly. He peered up at the little flowers, he wasn't much of a one for botany but he liked learning new things and he had a feeling he had seen these ones before. "That means it ain't exactly nothing."

"Not anything important," In the darkness d'Artagnan sounded a little flustered. "I just .. haven't had time to throw them away."

"Whatever you say," Porthos shrugged, he was just teasing it wasn't really any of his business. "Get some sleep, yeah?"

It was only when d'Artagnan was sleeping soundly in his arms that he remembered with a sudden chill that those little blue flowers were actually forget-me-nots and exactly where he had seen them before, carefully pressed inside the silver locket Athos always wore as a precious memory of his dead wife. And just what it had taken for his brother to confess to that. It had to be a pure co-incidence that d'Artagnan's mysterious admirer has chosen the favour flower of Athos' long dead wife. But still Porthos would do whatever he could to save his brother needless pain.

He waited until the morning to say anything, as if it was a matter of no importance.

"About them flowers, best not mention them to Athos, eh?"

"You think he'd disapprove?" d'Artagnan's face fell.

"Naw, he wouldn't particularly care," Porthos didn't want to make anything of this. "But he has enough to deal with, with Aramis' exploits. If it's really nothing why add to his worry?"

"Good point," d'Artagnan acknowledged. "I'll bear that in mind."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to Athos and d'Artagnan's experiences at le Fere come from another story of mine "Redemption."


	9. Commodities (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the road back from Le Harve unexpected truths are uncovered. Friendships are tested. Aramis overreacts (just a bit).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know you have watched the DVDs too many times when .. watch the boys trying to hold Porthos back from Bonnaire. At one point its d'Artagnan and Athos and Aramis is leaning against the wall .. in another shot its Aramis and Athos holding him back.

"So, why are we going to Le Harve?"

D'Artagnan tightened his horse's girth before swinging himself up into the saddle. Beside him Aramis was already mounted, his mare dancing a little in place eager for the off. Next to him Porthos stood packing the last of their provisions into his saddle bag, Athos' horse tied up beside him, flicking his tail, as they all waited for their leader to finish speaking to Treville.

"Some merchant who's committed crimes against the King is in port. We're to ride there and arrest 'im before he can sail off again." Porthos told him.

"Doesn't sound too hard," d'Artagnan observed. Part of him had hoped for a little more excitement. "How much trouble can a merchant be?"

Granted Bonnaire was not quite what he expected with his extravagant gestures and his outrageous flirting. If it wasn't for the figures lurking in the shadows he might have doubted Treville's intelligence. Of course, that was before Bonnaire's good lady had wife had sunk her teeth into his hand and the merchant had not only been divested of concealed weapons but also tried to escape out the window. Catching the merchant with his metaphorical breeches down was particularly satisfying. The slow pace of their journey with Porthos' horse tethered to Bonnaire's wagon of treasures, rather less so, and the ambush at the outbuildings a distinctly unpleasant surprise.

"Might Porthos really die?" He asked Aramis quietly, slowing his horse slightly to keep pace with the wagon, Bonnaire now at the reigns and Porthos resting in the back, as they followed Athos' lead through narrow country lanes.

"Athos said this place was nearby," Aramis retorted tightly. "The quicker I am able to clean and sew his wound the better his chances."

"And you couldn't have done that by the roadside?" d'Artagnan asked diffidently.

"If I had to," Aramis acknowledged, favouring the Gascon with a swift look. "But such battlefield medicine is often too close to butchery, wherever possible clean, dry, conditions assure a better outcome for the patient."

D'Artagnan looked around curiously as they passed through a village. They seemed to be creating quite a stir. People were stopping what they were doing to stare openly as they muttered among themselves. He hadn't expected a group of King's musketeers would be such an unusual sight.

"So, this place Athos knows," he prompted. "Have you been this way before?"

"No," Aramis frowned deeply as his sharp ears caught a muttered he's back from one of the women and a curl of unease settled in his stomach. "We usually stick to the main road. We've never been this way before."

Aramis held his peace as Athos unlatched the heavy wooden doors to the four story mansion. He did not question as Athos led them unerringly into a drawing room, with a large fireplace and furniture shrouded in dust sheets. His unease growing he didn't even make a joke when the first thing Athos did was offer them wine and he said nothing at all as d'Artagnan asked the thing uppermost in all their minds.

"So, how did you know about this place?"

"I own it."

"You own this house?" d'Artagnan clearly wanted to be sure he'd heard right. "But it's huge. How many rooms does it have?"

"I have no idea, it never occurred to me to count them." He strode over to a pair of double doors, speaking without looking at Aramis as he opened them. "You'll need to lay him somewhere flat to sew his wound. There's a table through here."

"We can't use that, that's a proper piece of craftsmanship," Pothos objected, as Aramis helped him into the lavish dining room complete with tapestries. "I'll get blood all over it."

"It's just a table. I'm sure Athos values your life more than an unfeeling block of wood, no matter how grand it is," Aramis' tone was as arched as his brow. "If this place still held any sentimental value for him he would not have hesitated to bring us here."

"Aramis!"

He didn't actually need to hear Porthos' sharp rebuke, coupled with the best glare his friend could muster, under the circumstances, or to see d'Artagnan's shocked expression, to know that he had gone too far. This was not a house Athos would have purchased on a whim. This was without doubt the home his family had dwelled in for generations. A place he and his brother would have played as children.

"My apologies," he tried, and failed, to catch Athos' eye. "That was uncalled for."

"Not at all," Athos' tone was politeness itself, but Aramis knew him well enough to read the stark hurt underneath. "Please, do carry on. You are right, it is merely a table."

"It's more than that," Porthos put in, unable to suppress a wince as Aramis began to help him out of his jacket and shirt, so he could lie down. "It's your home. It's only right to treat it with respect."

"I appreciate the sentiment," Athos' eyes grew distant. "But this place is not my home. It has not been for quite some time."

"But this house?" d'Artagnan asked, out of a mix of naivety and simple curiosity, what the others could not. "This is where you grew up?"

"Yes. I was born Oliver d'Athos, de la Fere," Athos said tonelessly. "I inherited the title of Comte on my father's death."

"You were the Comte de la Fere?" Aramis tone was lightly mocking, as he rolled out his sewing kit. He did not seem able to help himself. "A son of the nobility?"

Once Porthos' wound was cleaned and stitched and he was snoring quietly on the sofa, Aramis and d'Artagnan dragged Bonnaire outside to find some wood for the fire and Athos went to seek out candles from somewhere in the depths of the house. Bonnaire sat on a tree stump and watched as the musketeers split logs from the wood store and then complained long and loud when required to help carry them back to the house. When they finally returned, there was a pile of candles on the side table, Porthos was blinking the sleep from his eyes and Athos was no-where to be seen.

"Do you think he's alright?" d'Artagnan worried. "Should I go and look for him?"

"I doubt Athos can get lost in his own house," Bonnaire observed loftily, as he settled down for a nap after his exertions. "Would someone be kind enough to wake me when supper is ready?"

"Since when did we become his servants?" d'Artagnan commented, as he rifled through the sack of provisions, pulling out ingredients. They had replenished their supplies in Le Harve so there was enough to make a decent meal. "He acts more like a Comte than Athos."

"Can you see Athos with a Valet helping him into his braies?" Porthos grinned wickedly. "That'd make 'im uncomfortable alright."

"So, did you really have no idea he was a member of the nobility?" D'Artagnan glanced curiously from Porthos to Aramis.

"I wouldn't say no idea exactly," Aramis said cryptically, as he busied himself setting the fire. "There were certain indications."

"A Comte though," Porthos put in. "We wasn't expecting that."

"And from one of the finest families in France," Aramis smiled mirthlessly, as the blaze took to his satisfaction and he sank back on his haunches. "He could be a minster of the Crown if he chose."

"Really?" d'Artagnan was surprised at that. "So, why did he decide to enter the King's service as a musketeer?"

"Why not?" Porthos evaded. "S'a fine thing to be."

"That's certainly true," d'Artagnan smiled, thinking of his own aspirations. He was vividly reminded of the moment back at the Chatelet when Aramis had reverently slid the musketeer insignia back onto Athos' arm, buckling the straps with infinite care, before gripping his shoulder with fierce affection as their eyes met. Then Porthos had stepped up, offering Athos his sword and musket, blinking away tears at the thought of what might have been, only relaxing into a warm smile and clapping his friend soundly on the back once the weapons were safely stowed where they belonged.

And Athos had stood just a little straighter for having all of those things around him.

"But if he's that important he must have been presented at Court," d'Artagnan realised suddenly. "Athos has Palace duty all the time. He can't have changed that much in five years. Surely someone would recognise him?"

"You haven't been to the Palace yet," Porthos reminded. "It's not like you'd think."

"Musketeers don't attract much attention from the court elite," Aramis spoke up. "We are rather like bookends. There to serve a function but not anything to distract your attention from the higher purpose of stabbing those around you in the back. The nobility are all the same only interested in their own aggrandisement."

Porthos frowned. Whilst it wasn't uncommon for them to sit around after long, boring, generally uncomfortable, hours of palace duty and gently mock the nobility for their self-indulgence the sharp edge of bitterness to Aramis' tone was new and deliberate.

"D'Artagnan?" Porthos waited until the boy looked up, "I've got a proper thirst on, could you maybe find me some water?"

"Of course," the boy lit up with his eagerness to be useful. "I'll be right back."

"No hurry, take your time," Porthos assured him, his steady gaze fixed on Aramis. As soon as the Gascon was out of earshot he asked the very necessary question. "Alright, why are you so mad at Athos?"

"Why aren't you?" Aramis countered.

"Maybe because I know what it's like to have people judge you just because of where you come from. Athos didn't ask to be born into the nobility any more than I had a choice about being born in the Court."

"It's hardly the same thing," Aramis scoffed.

"Ain't it?" Porthos tipped his head on one side. "Seems to me he was right not to tell us if this is the way you start treatin' 'im."

"Don't you understand?" Aramis surged to his feet, his fist clenched. "You could have died on that roadside. He had a means to save you and he wanted to ride on, wait till dark."

"But he didn't and here we are, warm and safe and nothing to complain about," Porthos eyed him steadily. "How quick would you be to return to the woods of Savoy, eh?"

Aramis bristled slightly at the comparison, but under Porthos' knowing gaze he could not find the words to deny the justice of that statement.

"Cept that ain't really what you're so mad about, is it?" Porthos observed astutely. "You're mad that it's been five years and he never said."

Aramis couldn't deny it. In those quiet, intimate, moments in the aftermath of pitched battles, during companionable evenings around the campfire, passing long tiring days in the saddle, Porthos had gradually opened up about his life in the Court of Miracles, Aramis had confided in his friends about Isabelle and their doomed love, and Athos had let it be known that he had once had a younger brother and, to their great surprise, a wife.

He hadn't needed details to recognise the level of trust their taciturn leader had placed in them by revealing even that much. But he had never imagined that his brother had kept something like this from them.

And it hurt.

They didn't see Athos again until darkness had fallen. To Porthos' dismay he looked pale and haunted as he came to ask how he was. Being here clearly wasn't doing him a bit of good. Right then Porthos would have said or done anything to take that look off his face. So he put all the conviction he could muster into his words.

"Fine and fit."

Athos, bless his heart, was still prepared to defer to Aramis' medical judgement. But Aramis, stubborn as ever, was at his most insouciant, the grudging assertion that he could travel if he must made Porthos scowl at being made a weapon to heap even more guilt on Athos' shoulders. If Porthos was actually unfit to travel Aramis would not have hesitated to say so.

But before he could open his mouth to protest Bonnaire decided to join the conversation. Porthos was momentarily cheered by the look of icy disdain the merchant's assertion that being here 'must bring back all sorts of memories' brought to Athos' face but then he noted how Athos' fists had curled into themselves so tightly his knuckles had turned white, and after a moment, blood began to trickle between his fingers and drip onto the floor. As he turned away Porthos caught such a look of anguish in his eyes that he had half got up, before his wound flared a protest, and by the time he had breathed through the pain Athos was gone.

"He hasn't spent any time with us since we got here," d'Artagnan worried. "He didn't have any supper and the rest of this place is like a mausoleum. What is he doing?"

Mourning, the realisation hit Porthos like a punch to the gut. Athos wasn't avoiding them, he was confronting his demons and they were letting him do it alone. That was bang out of order.

"Go after him," Porthos looked at Aramis, his tone brooking no argument. "Take your head out of your arse and go and sort this out. Or I'll do it myself and I'll make sure I rip every one of your stitches while I'm about it."

"Of course," To his credit Aramis looked equally concerned at the uncharacteristically public display of emotion, his eyes fixed on the small trail of little red circles that Athos had left in his wake. "Remiss of me not to have done so earlier."

It wasn't hard for Aramis to follow the footprints which cut through the thick dust on the stairs up to the first floor. They went in and out of the main bedroom before disappearing into a room at the end of the corridor. Pausing on the threshold Aramis discovered Athos sitting in a large room stripped bare of even a single stick of furniture, his back against the wall and his head buried in his bent knees, a stub of a candle by his side, as he wept inconsolably. Just by his left foot was a large, dark, stain discolouring the wooden floorboards. Aramis froze as the solider in him recognised it at once for what it was - the loss of a man's life blood, or, dear God, a woman's, for Athos had never said how his wife had died.

Without a word he sank onto the floor beside Athos, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close, resting his chin on the bowed head and murmuring a liturgy of comfort as he rocked him gently in his arms. He had never seen Athos so utterly broken and it shamed him that this was the level of anguish his brother had been fighting to contain ever since they had set foot into this place. The level of anguish he fights to contain every day his mind supplied unhelpfully. When Athos finally managed to slow his breathing and looked up with red rimmed eyes Aramis was the first to speak.

"How many times did you hold me after Savoy?" He reminded. "Do not even think about apologising for this. It is I who should be apologising."

Athos merely expressed his gratitude by leaning a little further into Aramis' embrace before he spoke.

"Perhaps there are other things for which I should express my regret."

"Nothing of consequence," Aramis soothed. "Porthos is safe and well, thanks to your courage in bringing us here. Bonnaire has been inconvenienced, which is something of a bonus. My only concern is that you felt unable to talk to us. Was it such a difficult thing to share?"

"When I realised where we were, I could not bear it," Athos admitted. "I never wanted you or Porthos to know about this part of me. I felt as if the man who was the Comte de la Fere died alongside my brother and my wife. When Treville granted me the opportunity to re-make myself in the musketeers I hoped that the simple life of a soldier would allow me to atone for my failure to save those I love, by ensuring that others without coin or contacts to recommend them might find their justice."

Aramis sucked in a ragged breath and tipped his head back as he tried to blink the tears from his own eyes, being reminded, as so often before, why he loved, this man, so fiercely.

"You are a simple soldier who is a natural leader, who chooses to say as little as possible so as not to betray the fact that he has the speech and manners of a man of quality, not to mention the benefit of a rigorous classical education," Aramis put all of his fondness for this impossible man in his tone as he carefully picked up one of Athos' hands in his own. "And hands as soft and lily white as one of the Queen's ladies."

He secretly congratulated himself as Athos managed a half decent glare at that.

"Apart from the sword callousness, of course." Aramis amended with a grin.

He gently uncurled the long, elegant, fingers, noting without surprise that his nails were stained with blood and there were little semi-circular wounds marring his palm. Taking out his handkerchief he cleaned them as best he could, using careful strokes to gently wipe away the hurt.

"You never asked," Athos surprised him. "After, DuPont held us prisoner I kept expecting that one day you would demand the truth of me. But you never have."

"No, I had rather hoped that you might feel able to tell me," Aramis admitted, patting Athos' hand to mitigate the sting of those words. "Although, I confess, I rather neglected to appreciate the magnitude of what that might entail. As you have frequently been at pains to remind me, I am rather vain."

"I must go to the Church and visit the family vault," Athos made no attempt to move from Aramis' embrace. "I have avoided that duty for far too long."

"Not tonight," Aramis vetoed that as he carded a hand through Athos' hair, all too aware that up here the combined heat of their bodies was their only defence up here against the chill of the night. He wanted to get Athos downstairs as soon as possible. "Tonight you are going to eat a little something and warm yourself by the fire, we can deplete your wine cellar and you can rest beside your brothers and no one will be remotely annoying."

"Not even Bonnaire?" Athos challenged mildly.

"Especially not Bonnaire. We can threaten to leave his wagon behind when we depart for Paris," Aramis grinned tightly. "Imagine the quite ugly things the King may do to him if he doesn't come bearing gifts."

Aramis was not surprised when Athos absented himself from the burial of Maria Bonnaire, nor to discover the crate of wine which had appeared on the dining room table. No doubt the man had had his fill of funerals associated with this place and needed something to take the edge off. To be honest he was astonished there was only one bottle missing.

"Athos says we're to get back on the road and get Bonnaire to Paris." D'Artagnan spoke from behind him. "He said there was someone he needed to see in the village. Oh, and we're not to leave Porthos alone with Bonnaire."

"He's not coming with us?" Aramis couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Not right now," d'Artagnan looked unhappy. "I offered to go with him, but he ignored me."

Fear was a strange emotion, Aramis reflected. He had seen it freeze some men into helplessness, so that they stood stock still even as their doom descended upon them. He had seen it galvanize others into feats of strength and remarkable courage. It showed itself through a myriad of emotions, compassion, grief, wariness. Right now the one Aramis was feeling uppermost was utter fury.

"You," He ordered d'Artagnan, even as he ran. "Stay with Porthos,"

"Wait, now where are you going?" d'Artagnan called after him.

It was only the fact that they had untacked the horses and left them to graze after riding hard after Bonnaire and his wife that allowed Aramis to intercept Athos in time. As it was the man was just about to mount up, when Aramis put a hand on his rein to demand his attention.

"The boy says we are to leave without you." He challenged.

"As I'm sure he also relayed, I have some business to attend to in the village." Athos looked pointedly at Aramis hand, holding his horse in place.

"Then by all means, let's stay," Aramis took a step forward, trying for reasonable. "Porthos will be all the better for another day's rest and it won't do Bonnaire any harm to cool his heels wondering what the King has in store for him."

"No, we have a duty to the King to get Bonnaire back to Paris as soon as possible. Circumstances have already delayed us longer than Treville would expect. Take Porthos and d'Artagnan and get back on the road."

"Have you learnt nothing from any of this?" Aramis felt his temper rising as he gripped the arm bearing the musketeer insignia. "What is our motto Athos?"

"I hardly see how that applies here."

"One for all and all for one, united we stand, divided we fall." Aramis recited. "Why must you continue to insist to shoulder this burden alone?"

"This is not musketeer business," Athos insisted. "Getting Bonnaire to Paris is."

"And what am I supposed to tell Treville when we return without you?" Aramis stepped back so he could look Athos in the eye as a dreadful possibility occurred to him. Had the musketeers and everything they had shared been nothing but a temporary haven for the Comte? One that had outlived its usefulness now his identity was known? He could hardly bring himself to ask the question. "Do you think to remain here?"

"Of course not, I will re-join you on the road as soon as I have seen to my own affairs," Athos informed him coldly. "I am not Marsec to forget my duty and desert my post on a whim."

Things went rather downhill from there.

The silence in which they rode away from la Fere was anything but companionable. Bonnaire was sulking at having to leave the wagon behind. D'Artagnan kept looking behind him, as if hoping to see Athos coming down the road. Porthos sat as straight as his wound allowed in the saddle, his mouth set in a thin, disapproving line.

"You're angry at me," Aramis decided he might as well face the music. "Care to tell me why?"

"You know why. It ain't right to leave 'im alone back there."

"We had our orders. I merely hear and obey," Aramis tried for the moral high ground. "Besides, he was being unreasonable."

"He was trying to push you away and you let 'im," Porthos regarded him solemnly. "After Savoy, he took everything you could throw at him, no matter how bad things got, he stuck by you and just kept on coming back for more. You owe 'im better than this."

Neither man said anything for the next few miles.

"I did think he'd be with us by now," Aramis finally admitted. "You don't think something might have happened to him?"

"With a cellar full of wine to hand and the ghosts of his dead brother and wife for company?" Porthos gave him a sardonic look. "What could possibly go wrong?"

"You're right. Of course, you're right," Aramis began to imagine the worse. "If he fell down the stairs he could hit his head. Or a shard from a broken glass might cut a vein. I've known men choke on their own vomit when they've drunk too much. Or drown in a puddle of water."

"So, we're going back, yeah?"

"We still have to get Bonnaire to Paris, and besides, if I go back he'll punch me," Aramis admitted. At Porthos' arched brow he had the grace to look a little sheepish. "I may have said some things."

"Of course you did," Porthos rolled his eyes. "Alright then, let's send the boy. You know how Athos dotes on 'im. He won't punch 'im and just maybe he'll talk to 'im about whatever's got 'im wound so tight. S'worth a try."

"You think he'd trust d'Artagnan more than us?" Aramis looked openly hurt at the prospect."But he's only just met him."

"This ain't about trust, you dolt," Porthos shook his head. "Think of it like lancing a wound, one that's been festering for five years. What's gotta be easier? Talking to a boy who already has a bad case of hero worship and won't press you for more than you're ready to tell? Or confessing all to the two people you love and fear most in the world."

That startled Aramis so much he actually reined his mount to a halt.

"Athos is not afraid of us." He declared fervently.

"He's afraid of losing us." Porthos spoke with quiet certainty.

"Oh," Aramis suddenly felt as if his heart was in his throat and his chest too tight to breathe properly. What a fool he had been. "I hadn't actually thought about it like that."

"That's cos you're an idiot," Porthos told him fondly. "And so is he, right idiots the pair of you. Good job you have me to set you straight."

"Right then," Aramis made the decision. "Best send the boy back to make sure Athos doesn't fall face first into the candle and set fire to his beard again."


	10. Commodities (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos and Aramis make their peace. Porthos and Aramis add two and two and make five.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Notes - Au Revoir means till I see you again (Voir being the verb to see) Adieu means see you with God (Dieu being God) and is used when you don't expect to see the person for a long time (if ever).

Athos knew as he rode into the garrison that there would be questions. He was a day late. The smell of smoke still clung to his clothes. His beard and hair were somewhat singed, his leathers even a little charred in places and if anyone actually looked closely enough there was a small burn on the side of his head. His intent in telling d'Artagnan to say nothing to the others had not been an attempt to hide what had happened. In the circumstances he knew that would be rather futile, but to ensure that the boy would not cause his friends concern over things he had a duty to explain in his own words.

"What the 'ell happened to you?"

Porthos was there with a hand on his stirrup and worry in his eyes before he could even bring his horse to a halt.

"It's a long story," Athos levered himself wearily out of the saddle, unaccountably glad to be back in the familiar refuge of the Garrison. "Is Treville here?"

"Nah, he's at the Palace. He'll be gone for a couple of hours at least," Porthos' eyes narrowed as he peered a little closer toward Athos. "Is that a burn?"

"A small one," Athos swiftly moved to change the subject. "How is your wound? Did you get Bonnaire to the King safely?"

"Wound's healing just fine. Bonnaire, well that's another long story," Porthos made a face. "C'mon, let's get you cleaned up first and out of those clothes. You smell like a smoked fish."

The proprietorial grip Porthos had on his elbow made it clear he wasn't about to let Athos out of his sight any time soon. They went up to the small area of the end of the main barrack room that Porthos called home. Athos gratefully poured some water into a bowl and made another attempt at washing the clinging smell of smoke out of his hair and beard, before stripping off his jacket and shirt, using the cloth Porthos gave him to wipe down his upper body.

"I reckon this shirt's done for, but the jacket hasn't come off too badly. These bits here can be patched as good as new. A quick wipe down and a bit of an airing and it'll be right as .." Porthos trailed off.

"What is it?" Athos turned to look at him.

"Aramis said you had words," Porthos looked distressed. "He didn't tell me the two of you came to blows."

Athos closed his eyes briefly. He had been resolutely ignoring how stiff and tender his back and shoulders were feeling. He had forgotten that by now the bruises would be quite spectacular, as well as the raw grazes standing out starkly against his pale skin. But that was the least of his concerns. The state of his friendship with Aramis was clearly in question if Porthos could think their mutual friend had done this. Athos wondered what exactly Aramis had told him. But, coward that he was, he did not dare ask.

"Aramis did not cause this."

"Come off it," Porthos scoffed. "You don't get them sort of bruises from a simple fall. And you're moving like your ribs are botherin' you. You'd need a bit of force to do damage like that, driven back by a weapon, or a fist."

"There was a fight," Athos could not deny the truth of the matter. "Someone tried to kill me. But Aramis had no hand in it."

"Someone tried to kill you?"

Porthos' voice was generally loud. He took joy in life and the company of his fellows and didn't much care who knew about it. His booming laugh, blunt wisdom and good hearted humour were a constant feature of garrison life. When he was angry or startled the volume rose incrementally and right now he was both.

"Porthos." Athos tipped his head meaningfully.

Porthos turned around slowly, already knowing what he would find. True enough Aramis was standing behind him, his face pale as he took in the mottled damage to Athos' torso and his expression was slack with shock as he tried to process what he had just overheard.

"Someone tried to kill you?" Aramis repeated in an odd tone.

"As you see they did not." Athos looked awkward.

"Yeah well, you'll catch your death if you stand around like that much longer." Porthos was the first to recover.

He opened his press and pulled out a shirt and his blue padded doublet. They'd both be a bit on the large size for Athos but the doublet could be cinched in at the back to make a reasonable fit. And, although neither of them had ever spoken of it, Porthos and Aramis both knew Athos found comfort in borrowing their clothes when he was sick or hurting. Whether it was the simple kindness of the act or sense of safety it provided it didn't matter. It was enough that they could do this small thing for a man who asked for so little.

"Thank you." Athos inclined his head in gratitude, as he accepted the clothes.

He tried not to wince as he pulled the shirt over his head. None too successfully, if the way Porthos was suddenly there help thread his arms carefully through the sleeves of the doublet and proceeded to buckle it in place so he would not have to stretch around was any indication.

"When did you last eat?" Aramis' voice asked without inflection.

"In the early days of our acquaintance you used to ask merely if I had eaten." Athos glanced swiftly at him, and then looked away, as if unsure how the small overture of friendship would be received.

"That was before I realised you wielded logic like a deadly weapon," Aramis' spoke levelly. To be fair it hadn't taken him that long to work out that the answer to any question phrased that way would always be 'yes' irrespective of how long it had been since Athos' last meal. And in his defence Athos had only had to pass out once for him to work it out. He tipped his head on one side, as his eyes softened slightly. "And how little you care for your own welfare."

"My Valet saw the flames. His wife brought us food and wine," Athos stated. "D'Artagnan was almost as persistent as the two of you in ensuring that I ate."

"Hold on," Porthos narrowed his eyes. "Flames?"

"My wife tried to kill me. She set the house ablaze intending that I should die within it. She would have succeeded too, if d'Artagnan had not returned and pulled me from the burning building." Athos could not look at either of them as he said it.

"I thought you said your wife was dead?" Aramis straightened up.

"I told you what I believed to be true." Athos agreed.

It had been in the sweltering heat of mid-summer three years earlier that they had found out. It was supposed to be a have been a straightforward mission. The sort of errand one man might easily accomplish in a couple of days. Since it was not a matter of national importance, great secrecy, or even any particular urgently, Treville had taken the opportunity to dispatch a couple of new recruits, Girard and Babin, under Athos' command by way of a training exercise. He had decided that sending Aramis and Porthos as well would only encourage mischief. Looking at their anxious expressions as they stood on the other side of his desk, he was regretting that now.

"They oughta have been back by now," Porthos worried. "Something's gone wrong."

"If we press the horses we can cover their route in a day. Athos would not have left the road unless there was some dire necessity." Aramis put in.

"And if he had to, he'd have left us a marker," Porthos added. "Something so we can track 'em."

"Alright," Treville agreed. If anyone could find Athos, and the admittedly inexperienced and untested young recruits, it would be these two. But he wasn't about to make the same mistake twice. "Take Roland and Bernard with you. If they ran into trouble, it may find you as well."

As the sun rose in the sky, already sending trickles of sweat down the back of their leathers, they made their preparations as swiftly as possible, readying the horses and collecting supplies. Porthos didn't comment when Aramis stowed an extra couple of muskets, but his face fell when he caught him slipping a bottle of laudanum into his saddlebag.

"You think we're gonna need that?" He asked with dismay.

"More than likely it won't turn out to be anything," Aramis assured him, as he carried on checking the various bags and straps. "They could be delayed for all manner of reasons. Perhaps a horse went lame, or a bridge went out. I'm just being prepared. I packed this too."

Porthos grinned as Aramis held up a large pot of the white lotion he used to stop Athos' pale skin burning in the sun. He told himself he was worrying too much. Everything would be fine and they would all be back, home and safe, before they knew it.

"Although," Aramis put a foot in his stirrup and hopped up, gathering up his reins as he turned to look at Porthos with a rueful face. "If this delay is the result of some ridiculous error on the part of Girard or Babin, I fear it may have tested even our dear Athos' remarkable patience."

"I got that covered," Porthos grinned at him, as he mounted in his turn. "I packed wine."

They rode at a steady canter, fast enough to cover the ground swiftly, not so fast as to leave the horses spent. The steady thud of the horses' hooves against the earth calmed some of Porthos' anxiety as now at least they were doing something, rather than just cooling their heels in the garrison as their worry mounted. It was almost mid-day when Aramis raised a hand to bring them to a halt.

"You see somethin'?"

Porthos stood up in his stirrups to watch as Aramis vaulted off his horse and crossed to the side of the road to pick something up. His face visibly paled as he held it so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Without a word he came to Porthos' side and silently offered it up.

Athos' pauldron, the straps cut off cleanly, as if done by a blade.

"You think that he left this for us?" Porthos asked, trying to ignore the fear tightening his chest, as he turned it over in his hands. "Or that someone cut it off 'im?"

"I don't know," Aramis looked away, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he tried to gather his emotions. "There are tracks leading this way, several horses, not very old."

"Well then," Porthos determined to be positive. "What are we waiting for?"

They slowed their pace as they travelled through the woods, cautious as to what they might find ahead. The first thing they came across was a small shack being guarded by two men in black capes with a small group of horses tethered behind.

"There's Athos' horse," Porthos observed. "And Girard and Babin's behind. That makes at least three others. Two here, so where's the other one?"

"They're Spanish," Aramis caught a snatch of conversation on the wind. "What business would they have here?"

"Can you hear what they are saying?" Roland asked.

"Only the important bits," Aramis flashed him a feral grin. "Prisoners."

The two guards were swiftly and silently despatched. A single kick from Porthos made short work of the door lock. In the dappled sunlight inside the shack Girard and Babin sat up blinking slightly as they recognised their rescuers. Roland and Porthos set about untying their bonds, Bernard stood guard and Aramis ran back to the horses to fetch some water.

"Easy," He held up the water skin, placing one hand behind the blond head so Babin could drink. "Not too fast."

"It was our fault," Babin choked out, looking at him through anguished eyes. "He was protecting us."

"Athos?" Aramis' heart skipped a beat.

"They wouldn't believe us," Girard spoke up from across the room where Roland was tending to him. "We tried to tell them we had nothing of any importance. They thought it was a trick. They said all musketeers were spies for the King. They were determined to get to the truth of things."

"He told them that he was in command," Babin added. "That we knew nothing. And then they took him away."

Porthos and Aramis exchanged a loaded look. Athos would have realised that any delay would bring others looking. In order to survive all they needed to do was stay alive long enough to be rescued. And it would be exactly like him to place himself in the line of fire to spare those under his command. No matter what the cost.

"This is why we shouldn't let him go off by 'imself." Porthos muttered.

"Babin." Aramis put a hand on each side of the younger man's face, helping him to focus. "Where is Athos? Where did they take him?"

When all Girard could do was turn rather green and raise a trembling hand in the direction of the woods, Aramis dreaded that they would find Athos dead. He was afraid to look at Porthos in case he saw his own concern mirrored in his eyes. Memories of Athos, the twinkle in his eye when he was pretending not to be amused by Aramis' antics, his wry humour proving Aramis with an anchor in times of extreme stress or danger, the gentle brush of his lips across Armais' forehead when he was at his lowest ebb, flooded his mind. Weapons at the ready they made their way silently through the trees to a small clearing. Beside him Porthos swore softly in a language Aramis didn't recognise.

"How's he supposed to answer any of their bloody questions if he's dead?" Porthos hissed. "Tell me that, eh?"

Athos was lying, spread-eagled on his back, stripped to his braies, hands and feet tied to wooden posts. Even from this distance, Aramis could the see that his usually pale skin had turned a painful dark red where it had been burnt by the unrelenting sun. The missing Spaniard was leaning over him, spitting out his questions. When Athos turned his face away to avoid answering, the man's foot drew back to kick him viciously in the ribs.

He was dead before his foot could connect.

Scrambling forward Aramis dropped to his knees besides Athos' prone body, trusting to Porthos and Roland to untie his bonds.

"Athos?" Aramis hesitated for a moment to find a place where he could touch Athos without causing him further pain, before laying a gentle hand on the sweat soaked curls. "Athos, my brother, can you hear me?"

Heavy lidded eyes opened to mere slits, the habitual bright blue of Athos' eyes dull and unfocused.

"'Mis?" He rasped.

"Right here," Aramis grinned broadly in his relief. "Porthos is here too and Roland and Bernard. And our Spanish friends won't be bothering anyone anymore."

"Athos?" Porthos dropped down on the other side, slipping a hand under his head and lifting a water skin to his blistered lips, his smile growing as Athos managed a few sips. "That's the way."

"I'll need the laudanum." Aramis said quietly.

"That bad?" Porthos worried.

"They didn't get a chance to turn him over, that may yet save his life," Aramis said baldly. As it was it would be a battle to keep his fever down, to stop him spending all his strength in shaking and vomiting and trying to keep his skin from cracking and bleeding and gathering infection as it tried to heal. "But he's in no state to travel."

"Righto then, I'll tell Roland and Bernard to take the others back to Paris and let Treville know that you and me will be staying to take care of Athos until he's fit," Porthos decided, casting a fond look at the man between them hovering on the edge of awareness. "You stay with 'im, I'll get that laudanum."

After Aramis had coaxed Athos to swallow a little of the powerful painkiller, they made a stretcher out of a blanket and, moving Athos as little as possible, they carefully slid it beneath him. Then each of them picked up two corners and carried him, suspended in the soft wool towards the river bank and straight into the shallows. With Aramis kneeling down in the water to support his head in his lap, they lowered him into the cooling water. At first Athos made small sounds of distress as the current slapped against his abused skin, but in short order he began to relax into its soothing embrace.

"There now that's better isn't it?" Aramis murmured, cupping a hand to trickle a little water across his sun burnt face. "You rest now. We'll keep watch."

For the next few hours Aramis and Porthos took turns to sit with Athos in the cooling water, or slather him in the white lotion in an attempt to draw the heat from his skin and stop it cracking and bleeding as it healed. Despite their best efforts Athos' fever steadily built. As he drifted in and out of awareness, they rested his head in their laps to stop him from thrashing about and causing himself further pain, when he vomited thin yellow bile, they rolled him gently onto his side and made sure he did not choke, only to cast helpless glances at each other when he began to call out for his brother or the woman from his nightmares.

"Anne, Anne," He cried helplessly, trying to reach out to her, as if his mind had conjured her up in an apparition. "Please. I need you."

"Hush," Aramis gathered his head against his chest and hugged him carefully. "You have to rest."

"No, No, please, it's been so long," Athos struggled weakly. "You can't keep her from me. You can't keep us apart. I swore nothing would ever come between us. She's my wife. My wife I tell you."

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a startled look, even as Athos collapsed back in a spent heap, breathing heavily.

"It could be the laudanum," Porthos whispered. "Or the fever speaking, either of them are enough to give a man strange dreams."

"Or he could actually be married." Aramis hissed back cutting to the chase.

Porthos took a moment to consider that. Looking down at Athos' flushed and painfully sunburnt features, as his eyelids fluttered uneasily, he stroked his head tenderly.

"Nah, I don't see it."

"What, you don't think our dear Athos is husband material?" Aramis enquired. "He is quite handsome; he has excellent manners, a good education and all his own teeth. Granted his dress sense is somewhat lacking but that could easily be addressed with a feather or two, or a few more ruffles."

"There's no way Athos could have had a wife tucked away these last few years and us know nothing about it," Porthos corrected. "Not with all the time we spend with 'im."

"Perhaps he married young, over their parents' objections. He was disinherited and she was forced to return to her family home until he can save enough to keep her in the manner she deserves." Aramis pontificated.

"That would explain why he lives so frugally and never so much as looks at a woman." Porthos nodded sagely.

"So, you think I'm right?" Aramis was startled.

"No, you idiot, I think you've been reading too many of them trashy romance novels." Porthos rolled his eyes at him. "Although, it's plain as day he still loves this Anne, whoever she is."

After some days Aramis decided that Athos was well enough to travel, in a cart, under cover, and in easy stages and No, Athos, you're not fit to ride. As they packed up their impromptu campsite Aramis fondly looked at the small volume he had purchased in the nearby town, thinking of the evenings reading aloud to distract Athos from his pain until the sun set. Across from him Porthos carefully packed up their remaining provisions, strawberries, duck pate and soft brie, all Athos' favourite foods, chosen to tempt the patient to eat.

"Are you sure he's ready for this?" Porthos cast a worried glance to where Athos, dressed simply in a loose linen shirt and his braies, was resting under the shade of a tree. "He's been awful quiet even for 'im. I don't like it."

"He's had a hard time of things," Aramis sighed. Athos had been captured, tortured, and then left almost entirely dependent on his friends as his skin painfully cracked and bled as he healed. They had all had to adjust to a man who prided himself on his self-control, being quite so utterly helpless. "He just needs time."

"Naw that ain't it, he's brooding about something," Porthos shook his head decisively. "And I ain't spent the last few days taking care of 'im to let 'im wallow in that now."

Athos looked up as they approached, looking oddly vulnerable and rather younger than his years, without his leathers. Careful not to crowd him too much, Aramis sat to the left of him and Porthos settled by his knees, giving him an encouraging smile.

"Before we return to Paris, I believe I owe you something of an explanation," Athos spoke quietly.

"You don't 'ave to tell us anythin'. Fever does strange things to the strongest of men," Porthos assured him. "Unless you want to, if you want to then we'll listen and we won't judge, ain't that right Armais?"

"What he said." Aramis smiled fondly.

A small smile quirked at the edge of Athos' mouth, even as his eyes grew damp, he tipped his head back slightly against the tree trunk, blinking away the tears, as his friends waited patiently for him to compose himself. He had grown to trust these men as brothers in arms, putting his life in their hands without a second thought, he had permitted himself to enjoy their company as a balm to his wounded soul, he had admired them for their numerous good qualities and enduring faith in humanity. But he had not expected to be the recipient of such tender, loving, care as he had experienced these last few days, not ever again.

Much as he might wish to he could not deny them this much.

"I was briefly married. Anne was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, I thought our love would last forever," He sucked in a ragged breath and was dimly aware of Porthos' hand squeezing his leg and Aramis' gripping his shoulder. "She died, two years ago now. And I must find a way to live in this world without her."

"That's gotta be hard," Porthos sympathised. "But you don't have to do it alone, you've got us now."

"And I think you'll find we are remarkably difficult to shake off." Aramis informed him brightly.

"For these last five years I have imagined that the woman I love was gone from this world. From the moment I set foot in that house I felt her presence. I thought I was going mad. But she is alive." Athos revealed now.

"And she tried to kill you? That's hardly a fairytale reunion." Aramis observed.

"It was her revenge," Athos sucked in a breath. "There is something I have never had the courage to tell you. Please understand it does not reflect on the strength of your friendship, merely on my own failings."

"Athos, say what you need to," Porthos sought to reassure. "We're your brothers. We ain't gonna give up on you, no matter what."

"Aramis?" Athos looked at him, clearly braced for rejection.

The note of uncertainty in his tone hit Aramis like a musket ball to the gut. His angry, petty, words had done this to a man who had shown him nothing but loyalty and it made him sick to his stomach. In his mind's eye he saw again the look of shocked hurt on Athos' face as he had taken his leave of him at la Fere.

"Au revoir, Monsieur le Comte," He bowed low, keeping his head up, as was his custom, to fix Athos with a look of disdain. "Or should that be adieu?"

"You almost died," Aramis met Athos' eyes, feeling himself well up with emotion. "That tends to bring me to my senses rather swiftly."

The steady weight of Athos' hand on his shoulder and the forgiveness in his eyes was an immense comfort. Albeit one he felt rather ill-deserved just now. He vowed that he would never give this man another reason to doubt his love or loyalty.

"So, when d'Artagnan arrived, she just left?" Porthos cut in.

"For now," Athos agreed. "She has taken care all these years that I had no idea that she was still living. That she would finally show herself can only mean that she intends to finish what she started. She will not stop until I am dead."

"She'll have to go through us first." Porthos declared stoutly.

"She is a dangerous woman," Athos sighed, since he had come this far he might as well bare his soul utterly. "She lied and tricked her way into my life and then she murdered my brother when he found out of the truth of it. I will not lose you also."

"I think we may already have made enemies of her. Aramis realised. "When we thwarted her plan to have you executed at the Chatelet."

"You think Anne was behind that?" Athos straightened up.

"We never could work out exactly why, of all the regiment, you were singled out and we all know his Eminence has a weakness for beauty." Aramis shrugged apologetically. "A word in his ear in the throes of passion might be all it took."

"Oi," Porthos hissed, embarrassed on Athos' behalf at the insinuation that the Cardinal might have taken her as his mistress. "While they both live she's still his wife."

"She is a murderess who seduced the man entrusted with her execution to save her own skin," Athos re-joined, turning to look out of the window so that the stiff set of his shoulders was the only sign of his hurt. "No doubt she has shared many other beds to achieve her goals."

Behind his back Porthos stilled, his eyes going impossibly wide, before his face cleared of all expression as Athos turned around.

"You were going to tell me about Bonnaire?" He was all business again.

"Here," Deftly Aramis plucked his ever present jar of salve out of his pocket and tossed it at Athos, who easily caught it on handed. "Put some of that on that burn you think I haven't noticed on your head and then meet us in the courtyard. I told d'Artagnan to rustle us up some wine. When we tell you what happened you're going to need it."

Halfway down the stairs he gripped Porthos by the arm and turned him to face him.

"Alright, what was you couldn't say in front of Athos?"

"It might be nothing," Porthos made a face. "That night I stayed with 'im after Vadim, young d'Artagnan had a posy of forget-me-knots in his room, from an admirer. Just like those pressed flowers in Athos' locket."

"Bu it could be something," Aramis grave expression did not set Porthos mind at rest. "D'Artagnan was just asking my advice about the woman he met at the Inn on the way to Paris. Apparently she called at the Bonicieux's under the guise of ordering a dress."

"The one who left a bloody knife in his pillow, to frame him for the murder she committed? That's romantic," Porthos scoffed. "Why would she think he wanted to see her again?"

"He did seem quite taken with her. That night at the tavern he said she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and they had 'unfinished business'." Aramis reminded. "And remember his mysterious saviour? The one who killed those Red Guards in the ally?"

"The one we figured was an agent of the Cardinal?" Porthos recalled. "You think that was a woman?"

"It takes skill not strength to kill like that. A woman could easily do it and we know she had killed before and blamed it on him. Maybe she felt she owed him something?"

"You're only saying that because it's a woman and you hate to think badly of the fairer sex," Porthos pointed out. "Maybe she wanted him to owe her?"

"You do realise how preposterous this all sounds?" Aramis observed. "We're weaving a Machiavellian plot based on a small blue flower that can be bought at any market. It is a little far-fetched."

"You're not wrong there," Porthos admitted, with a wry grin. "Even with our luck, what are the odds that d'Artagnan's mistress and Athos' wife could ever be one in the same?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The references to sunburn come from personal experience. Think pale skin, boat, wind, - forgot to apply enough sunscreen and burnt to a crisp.
> 
> The references to Athos and d'Artagnan at le Fere come from my story Redemption.


	11. The Good Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a question of loyalty. Aramis might be loyal to Marsac, but Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan have drawn their own battle lines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insane plot hold fill - d'Artagnan now knows that Athos wife was sentenced to hang but survived. But does not connect this at all with the woman he slept with who had rope burns on her neck because the man she loved tried to kill her. 
> 
> Sigh - the things we fanfiction writers have to cope with!

So, Marsac was finally back.

In the days after Savoy, when he was still recovering from his injuries, Aramis had startled upright every time the door had opened, expecting that his friend had come to his senses and returned. That first year he had imagined he saw him everywhere, a flash of a cloak in the crowd, a familiar shock of hair glimpsed in the market. As the years passed he had wondered where he was and what he might be doing, whether he had remained in France and finally if he was even still living. Although, he never entirely lost hope that he would see Marsac again someday.

The assassin part was something of a surprise.

"Marsac?" Porthos' fists instinctively clenched at mention of the man who had haunted his friend's nightmares for the last five years. "I thought he'd be dead by now. What's he thinking of coming back to Paris?"

"Perhaps, we could discuss this elsewhere?" Aramis suggested, with a pained wince, as he looked around the courtyard to see if they had been overheard.

"Where is Marsac now?" Athos asked tonelessly.

"He's at the Bonacieux's," d'Artagnan spoke up. "We asked Constance to take him in. She doesn't know who he really is. Aramis told her he was a cabinet maker."

"Have a lot of sword callouses do they, your average cabinet maker?," Porthos scoffed. "First it's 'im with the wet grass and now you? S'a good job you're both better at fighting than you are at lying."

"On the contrary, first Treville, then us, now Madame Bonacieux, that suggests a certain proficiency," Athos said stiffly as he settled his hat firmly on his head. "Shall we go?"

Porthos and d'Aratgnan exchanged a troubled glance and wisely fell into step beside each other, leaving Athos and Aramis to bring up the rear. The two men walked in silence for several paces. When Aramis finally opened his mouth to speak, Athos did not even glance at him as he cut him off.

"You took it upon yourself to harbour an assassin and a deserter and then lied about it. Clearly if d'Artagnan had not spoken up you would have continued to lie to me. There is nothing more to be said."

Aramis took his hat off and rubbed a hand through his hair as he tried to think of a way to make this right. He had expected Athos to be angry with him for the risk he was running in hiding Marsac from the authorities but not this distant formality.

"Look if you are worried that I involved the boy, I had no choice, he happened upon us at the Palace. If it comes to it I'll see no blame is attached to him." He had rather hoped Athos knew him well enough to understand that. And as he watched Athos' jaw clench he realised that wasn't what was bothering him. He tried again. "Are you angry that I didn't tell Madame Bonacieux the truth about Marsac?"

"I am hardly in a position to judge what you do or do not choose to disclose given recent events." Athos' tone was clipped.

Aramis stopped dead. He had not even considered that Athos might link their recent quarrel at la Fere with his present actions. Although, perhaps he should have, Athos was a master at finding ways to punish himself. Athos had walked on a few paces before he noticed Aramis was no longer beside him and turned to see him, standing stock still in the middle of the street.

"We should catch up with the others."

"When I joined the regiment Marsac was my first friend. We did everything together. We were like brothers, I owe him my life," Aramis spread his arms helplessly as he tried to explain. "This has nothing to do with you and I."

"So it would seem." Athos' tone was stiff with what others might have seen as formality but Aramis recognised as hurt.

"That's not what I meant," Aramis' frustration grew, as he struggled to explain his actions. He refused to listen to the niggling part of his brain that said that he should have handled this better. "What did you expect me to do?"

"You could have come to me," Athos' tone was brittle with emotion, even as he closed the space between them until they were nose to nose. "Or do you have so little faith in me now that you think I would arrest a man so close to your heart without fair hearing?"

Oh. Aramis felt like all the breath had fled from his body. Momentarily unable to speak he slid his hat back on and drew himself up to attention, hands at his side, eyes straight ahead, heels together, offering Athos a gesture of respect that they both knew he rarely afforded to anyone. Even on the most formal of occasions, there was always a glint in his eye, a tilt to his hat or a flourish to his bow that was uniquely Aramis.

"I apologise, you are right, of course," Aramis swallowed hard, as he blinked fiercely. No matter what he felt he owed Marsac it could never compare to the depth of his connection with Athos. He desperately hoped his rash actions had not irreparably damaged their friendship. "Marsac might have been my first friend in the regiment but you and Porthos have been the best and truest friends I have ever known. As musketeers we are sworn to defend the King. I didn't want either of you to be burdened by the mistakes of my past."

The dampness in Aramis' eyes startled Athos. For all that the sharp shooter appeared to wear his heart on his sleeve, in five years Athos could count on one hand the number of times he had seen him actually moved to tears, unless in the throes of some night terror. With a wash of shame Athos realised just how much Marsac's return had thrown Aramis off kilter.

That would need careful watching.

"You do realise that your actions are entirely contrary to the advice you wished me to heed to at le Fere," Athos observed quirking a brow. "I'm sure you recall."

"You know full well I've never been any good at following my own advice," Aramis admitted sheepishly, around a slightly broken laugh.

Athos clapped him firmly on the arm, letting his hand rest there longer than was strictly necessary as he squeezed tightly in a silent gesture of forgiveness and reassurance. Aramis ducked his head swiftly to hide his reaction, his emotions too raw and too close to the surface to be sure of maintaining both eye contact and his composure just at present.

"Do you think there might be some validity to Marsac's claims?" Athos looked politely away, giving him a moment to gather himself.

Aramis pinched the top of his nose and took a ragged breath to regain his composure before meeting Athos' gaze, his expression grave.

"I don't know. He believes it, enough to risk his life by coming back here."

"Aramis," Athos knew he had to choose his words carefully. He knew from experience that Aramis had something of a blind spot when it came to Marsac. It had occurred to him to wonder if his own memories of Thomas were similarly selective. "Five years is a long time. He may not be the same man you remember."

Aramis had long since understood that Athos had little time for Marsac. Being Athos he had never fully explained his reasons, although Aramis was well aware that it had less to do with him being a deserter and far more to do with all the ways in which he felt Marsac had failed Aramis. It had always been an odd sort of comfort.

"I don't suppose it will do me any good to ask you not to punch him?" Aramis was resigned.

"I give you my word I will hold off until after we have been properly introduced." Athos assured him.

Marsac's eyes widened in alarm as Aramis brought him down to the Bonacieux's dining room to find something of a reception committee.

"What's this?" He turned accusing eyes on Aramis, as he was pushed into a chair. He had cared little about the boy. Whatever ties Aramis had to some wet behind the ears recruit could surely not compete with their brotherhood. But these two unknown musketeers had no loyalty to him and a duty to secure his arrest. He tried to stand up. "Can you so easily betray me?"

"It's not like that, these men are my friends," Aramis put a hand on his shoulder, pressing him down again. "If we are to prove the truth of your claims we'll need some help."

"But good to know you have so little faith in a man you call brother." A voice said acerbically.

"Porthos," Aramis chided with an easy familiarity that set Marsac's teeth on edge. "Marsac, this is Porthos, whose uncommon sense is matched only by his skill at hand to hand and seated over there is Athos, a brilliant swordsman and the finest soldier in the regiment."

"Is that so?" Marsac sniffed. "Before Savoy I was counted one of the best in the regiment."

"Clearly standards have improved since then." Athos retorted.

Porthos snorted a laugh.

"Perhaps we should focus on the matter in hand," Aramis quickly stepped in. "If Marsac is right then time is of the essence. As soon as the treaty is signed the Duke will return to Savoy and be out of our reach."

"If I'm right?" Marsac looked put out. "Time was my word would have been enough for you."

"I'm not saying you're wrong," Aramis defended himself. "But if we plan to topple a Duke and quite probably start a war in the process I'm not the only one you'll need to convince."

"So, best start with us, eh?" Porthos put in. "Then we'll see how things go."

"Because, at present, the only thing standing between you and the gallows." Athos added. "Is us."

"Gallows?" Constance paused in the doorway. "Why would a respectable cabinet maker be facing the gallows?"

"Well that went well," d'Artagnan observed sarcastically as they exited the cellars where Marsac had been interrogating the former soldier of the Duke of Savoy. "Our only lead and because you can't control your temper he's dead."

"You wouldn't understand," Marsac dismissed him. "I don't expect you've ever even been in a battle."

"He ain't run away from one either," Porthos defended d'Artagnan. "This one's much more likely to run headlong into danger."

"Gaudet? Really? Still?" d'Artagnan tipped his head at him.

When Aramis swept off his hat and ran a frustrated hand through his hair, before he began pacing back and forth, completely unaware that he was twisting his beloved head gear quite out of shape, they were all brought swiftly back to the present.

"So, what do we do now?" Porthos tried to move things along.

Instantly, Aramis stopped pacing and looked to Athos for guidance, like a compass seeking north. Out of the corner of his eye Porthos caught the way Marsac stiffened at the sight. When Athos simply tilted his head and Aramis immediately took a deep breath and settled down, stilling his hands, straightening out his hat, setting it back on his head and even managing a rueful smile at his actions, Marsac looked like he wanted to punch someone, probably Athos.

"I say we go and confront Treville." He said belligerently.

"No-one asked your opinion." Porthos scowled at him.

"If you think I am going to confront one of the finest men I have ever known solely on the words of a dead man and a deserter then you are delusional," Athos favoured Marsac with a look of disdain. Then he glanced at Aramis, letting some of his concern show. "But I agree the matter bears further investigation."

"So, does this mean Athos won't turn Marsac over to the authorities?" d'Artagnan enquired softly of Porthos as the group began to make their way down the street. Ahead of them Marsac had insinuated himself between Athos and Aramis as he continued to try and argue his case.

"That was never gonna happen," Porthos surprised him. "He wouldn't do that to Aramis. He carries enough guilt about Savoy as it is, Athos would cut off his sword arm rather than add to it. When this is over we'll put 'im on a road out of Paris and if he has any sense that'll be the last we see of 'im."

"It's that simple?" d'Artagnan frowned. "What about the fact that he's a deserter and assassin?"

"Some bloke in the Duke of Savoy's entourage ain't reason enough to make Aramis watch his friend hang," Porthos was blunt. "And battle's no easy thing. Watching friends die. Men being killed in the worst of ways, even the best of soldiers can lose their reason. We've all seen it. It's a hard thing to hang a man for a moment of madness."

"Are you sure Athos sees it like that?" D'Artagnan asked carefully. "He doesn't seem to like Marsac very much."

"Not because he's a deserter. Not as such." Porthos said cryptically.

"Oh?" d'Artagnan prompted.

Porthos cast a concerned glance at the three figures walking ahead. Marsac was gesticulating as he tried to make some point or other. But Athos had somehow slipped around the back of him so he was now walking shoulder to shoulder with Aramis. Porthos breathed a little easier at the sight.

"Thing is," He looked over at d'Artagnan. "Marsac's the main reason Aramis never got over Savoy. Five years he's spent wondering if Marsac was dead or alive, blaming himself for not doing more to help him even though he was half out of his own mind with blood loss. Aramis tortures himself with the belief he didn't do enough for Marsac when Marsac was the one who buggered off and left 'im to die."

"Aramis told me he was wounded," d'Artagnan acknowledged. "But he claimed Marsac saved his life."

"Yeah?" Porthos scowled. "Did he tell you he was wearing little more than his chemise at the time and there was snow in the ground? It was a miracle he survived. What he needed a warm fire, some hot soup, and a decent blanket or two, not twenty dead musketeers for company."

"I didn't know," d'Artagnan's expression darkened, as he thought about Aramis abandoned in the woods, every minute hating himself for surviving when all around him had died. "Is that why he's so eager to suck every last second out of life?"

"You ain't as green as you look are you?" The affection in Porthos' tone took the sting out of his words. "He was pretty low for a while after it happened. Between us Athos and I kept him going. Never realised we were creating a monster."

"He does keep things interesting," d'Artagnan acknowledged with a smile, recalling Aramis' many liaisons dangereuses, his utter fearlessness in the face of even quite ridiculous odds and his absolute lack of self-preservation when it came to righting a wrong. "But surely he can't really believe the Captain would have any part in this?"

"I don't rightly know what's going on in that head of his," Porthos sighed. "Marsac has got 'im all mixed up. It's a right mess."

To say that Marsac was displeased at the continuation of his house arrest was something of an understatement. It was bad enough that that these strangers were treating him like a criminal rather than a soldier. But that Aramis submitted without a murmur to the whim of this Athos truly rankled.

"Aramis was a musketeer long before you," He protested. "What right do you have to give him orders?"

"Aramis has never hesitated to speak up if he's not happy," Athos barely spared him a glance. He did not care to add that, he could only think of a handful of occasions where Aramis had felt it necessary to suggest an alternative solution. "No soldier can be led where he does not wish to follow."

"Except I seem to be coming with you," Marsac scowled tightly. "Rather against my will."

"That's because you aren't a soldier, you're our prisoner," d'Artagnan reminded him smugly.

"Or have you forgotten the whole deserter rubbish assassin thing?" Porthos put in helpfully.

"You said there was no 'we' here," Marsac turned his ire on Porthos. "But you seem happy enough to let Athos speak for you. What kind of soldier doesn't know his own mind?"

"The kind that values loyalty," Porthos told him. "And fine leadership. Not that I'd expect you to understand that. You're much more every man for 'imself."

Porthos didn't bother to tell him that he and Athos had already said everything that needed to be said in a single glance. They understood Aramis' need for the truth. But having Marsac around was dragging him down. Keeping the two men apart, even for a while, would help Aramis think more clearly.

"You have no idea what you are talking about," Marsac sneered. "Aramis was my brother long before he was yours."

"And now he's had five years to get used to you not being around," d'Artagnan pointed out with an insincere smile. "I think he'll manage."

After his last warning from Porthos the move was more instinct than judgement, even so Marsac didn't get more than two steps towards d'Artagnan before Athos' sword was out of its scabbard and barring his way.

"The only reason you are still here and not in the Chatelet awaiting execution for desertion and murder is that Aramis cares for you," Athos' tone was deadly. "But make no mistake, we do not, so that is the only license we will afford you. I would advise you not to presume too much on our good nature."

"Lay one finger on me and Aramis will never forgive you." Marsac sneered.

Athos and Porthos exchanged a lightening swift glance, which had d'Artagnan prudently stepping back out of range just before Athos' fist flashed out, snapping Marsac's head back, causing blood to blossom from his nose, and then Porthos surged forward, backing Marsace up against the nearest wall, one hand pulling his head back by his hair, one arm pressed hard against his throat so that Marsac flailed slightly and made satisfying little choking sounds.

"You're lucky we don't kill you right now and leave your body in the gutter where it belongs," Porthos hissed. "Head wounds, they bleed like the devil, weakening a body. What with snow on the ground and 'im barely dressed and hands shaking too much to build a fire, or hunt out a scrap of food, he had nothing but his will and courage to keep 'im going. Do you know how long it took for help to come? Do you have any idea how close he came to freezing to death?"

"Um, I don't think he can breathe?" d'Artagnan offered mildly. He shrugged. "I wouldn't bother to mention it, but it does make it a little harder to speak."

Porthos eased up on the pressure on Marsac's wind pipe, but tightened his fingers in his hair pulling his head a little further back.

"I had just watched twenty of my brothers be slaughtered," Marsac protested as he desperately tried to defend himself. "I wasn't thinking straight. I thought he'd be safe."

"Five years on and Savoy still haunts Aramis' nightmares," Athos tone was deadly. "Two days he spent wandering helplessly among those twenty broken bodies before help arrived. He still can't sleep when it snows without thinking he's surrounded by corpses. That wasn't the Duke's doing or Treville's. You alone did that to him when you abandoned him to his fate. And that I will never forgive or forget."

"Do you think my life has been easy these last five years?" Marsac challenged. "Always sleeping with one eye open? Never knowing where your next meal is coming from? Being a musket for hire to thieves and scoundrels, having to do things that make me sick to my stomach just to survive? You have no right to judge me."

"Not every man sells himself for a price," Porthos objected. "You think you are the only one who ever had a hard time of things? There's always a choice, true courage comes from making the right ones."

"And if you think you can convince Aramis to join in your crusade for revenge," Athos eyed him scornfully. "Then you know nothing about him."

When Aramis returned from the cemetery his friends simply fell into step beside him, silently making it clear that they had no intention of leaving his side as they accompanied him to his lodgings. Once they entered he found himself led to a chair. D'Artagnan set to stoking up the fire, Porthos removed his weapons and wet doublet like the most attentive of valets. Athos got down on his knees and began removing his damp boots and sodden stockings, accepting the cloth that d'Artagnan passed him to carefully dry between the wet toes to avoid foot rot.

Aramis closed his eyes as he thanked God for these men. Porthos had clawed his way up in society so he never needed to be at the beck and call of any man, but he saw taking care of his needs as a privilege. Athos had grown up being waited on hand and foot and yet would humble himself on his knees to take care of him without a second thought. Even d'Artagnan, a young man with as much pride as Aramis had ever seen, was running around like an errand boy to somehow produce an entire crate of wine with a beaming smile.

"Porthos tells me you almost killed the Duke of Savoy." Aramis quirked a brow at Athos.

"He exaggerates somewhat."

"So, you didn't put him on the defensive and force him back across the throne room to land in a quivering heap at the King's feet?" Aramis challenged fondly.

Athos said nothing, but as he carefully dried Aramis' other foot his lips quirked slightly at the memory.

"Fought like a demon he did," Porthos' voice was warm with affection. "Even the thought that the Duke might have had something to do with the massacre put murder in his heart, Treville was not best pleased."

"Will things be alright?" d'Artagnan asked carefully, as he passed Aramis a glass of wine. "Between you and the Captain?"

"We made our peace," Aramis acknowledged, as he savoured the warming properties of the particularly good merlot. "I always knew there had to be a reason behind his actions. Treville is a born soldier. He can be ruthless when the security of the realm is at stake. But he would never have done such a thing for pure avarice."

"There is one thing I don't understand," d'Artagnan mused, as he filled his own glass. "The Duchess has spent her married life betraying her husband by acting as a spy for France. How can she do that when she also says she loves him?"

"They have a child together," Porthos allowed. "Motherhood's a powerful bond."

"Plus the Duchess is no stranger to politics," Athos added. "More than likely she is also considering how her actions will strengthen her son's position when he comes to rule."

"Did you ever meet her before she was married?" Aramis asked Athos curiously.

"Once, when we were both much younger," Athos acknowledged, his eyes shone with amusement at the memory. "Even then she rather defied convention."

"Oh hey," Porthos perked up. "There's a story there. Go on then."

"I rather doubt that the Duchess would have connected the boy she knew then with the man I am now," Athos shrugged.

"And that wasn't what Porthos was asking," Aramis put in, as he leant forward. "You can't think you're getting out of telling it now."

Usually Athos might simply have declined to answer. But right now he would have done anything to ease the stiff set of Aramis' shoulders and banish that hollow look in his eyes. So, secretly enjoying the drama, he drew himself up and assumed his most dignified tone.

"A gentleman does not kiss and tell."

"There was kissing!" d'Artagnan whooped.

"We were mere children," Athos gave the boy a quelling look. He topped up his own glass and refilled Aramis' before regaling them with a tale of a long and boring court function, a child dressed in stiff, uncomfortable formal clothes, he and the now Duchess of Savoy had taking refuge from the stifling heat underneath the heavy tablecloths, eating bowlfuls of strawberries and exchanging confidences in their own private world out of sight and mind of the adults. "As I recall, she was the first girl I ever kissed."

"You truly are the most remarkable man." Aramis smiled fondly at him, his eyes soft with love.

"But I still don't understand," d'Artagnan spoke with the straightforwardness of youth, as he refilled his own suddenly empty glass. "How can you love someone so utterly and yet betray them?"

"Oi," Porthos kicked him sharply, when he saw Aramis flinch at the unthinking comment. "We're supposed to be making 'im feel better, yeah?"

"Mercy comes in many forms," Athos spoke quietly. "You saved Marsac from going to the gallows like a common criminal with the crowd jeering in his ears. He was able to return home to the Garrison and die like a musketeer in the arms of his brother. Plus, thanks to Treville he's buried with honour."

"I can think of worse endings." Porthos agreed stoutly.

"True," Aramis observed sadly. "Although, you'll forgive me if it takes me a little time to be grateful for being the instrument of his demise."

"We should eat, I'll fetch us something from the tavern," Athos declared abruptly. He was on his feet and out of the door before the others could react, but not before Porthos caught the unexpected sheen of tears in his eyes.

"What's eating 'im?" He worried.

"I suppose it must bring back bad memories," d'Artagnan observed, turning his wine glass around, seemingly mesmerised by the sloshing crimson liquid. Porthos made a mental note not to let him drink so much on an empty stomach in future. "Of being responsible for his wife's execution, I mean I know she didn't actually die, but he was the one who ordered her taken from the house to be hung."

"Hold on, what?" Porthos hissed clutching d'Artagnan by the arm so tightly to garner his attention that the boy would wonder tomorrow where the bruises had come from. "Are you saying Athos was the one who ordered his wife's execution? Not the authorities?"

"Yes, of course, that's .." d'Artagnan trailed off as he noticed Porthos' stricken expression and his face fell. "You didn't know. But he said he'd told you everything."

"Not that part," Porthos scowled. "Stands to reason though that he wouldn't leave it to the courts, Athos ain't ever been the type to make things easy for himself or shirk his responsibilities."

"And given his status as a Comte the only alternative would have been to bring her to Paris and have her tried before the King," Aramis sighed. "It would have been quite the scandal. She would have been shamed and ridiculed. It's regrettable but a woman always comes off worse in these things. A swift, private, death would have been something of a kindness. Although, I doubt she sees it that way."

"That's right," d'Artagnan blinked as the room spun slightly. "She didn't die. If he ordered her to be taken out and hung, right there and then how could she possibly still be alive?"

He felt a sudden cold shock of memory. The scars on her swan like neck. The man she loved who tried to kill her, Athos' wife sentenced to be hung but still living, his unthinking promise. The bile rose unbidden in his throat, the way his mouth filled with a wash of salt his only warning before he was empting the contents of his stomach onto the floor.

"There, there," Aramis dropped a damp cloth onto the back of his neck. "No more wine for you."

"But why isn't she dead?" d'Artagnan insisted with the doggedness of the truly drunk.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged an uncomfortable look. Neither of them wanted to shame Athos by being the one who told the boy that she had seduced the man entrusted with her execution.

"From what he said it seems like she never got as far as the noose," Porthos evaded. "One of the servants felt sorry for her and helped her escape. Athos couldn't bear to watch a woman he loved die so he was none the wiser."

"Oh," d'Artagnan's fuzzy brain was just about able to process the fact that Athos' wife, whoever she was, couldn't have any scars on her neck before he let his forehead drop onto the cool wood of the table. "That's alright then."

"Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that," Porthos scoffed kindly. "Come the morning you're going to feel like your head's about to explode."


	12. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos has a lovely birthday but then has to face his past. Causing all three Musketeers to reflect on what went before and how they earned their commissions.

"Perhaps I should come with you? You never know when you might run into trouble." d'Artagnan surged to his feet and tried not to sound too eager at the prospect of a distraction.

"Remind me again which one of us grew up around here? I think I can handle myself between the Garrison and the market," Porthos' grin told him he knew exactly what d'Artagnan was up to, as he nodded at the unopened volume which the Gascon had been so quick to abandon on the table "Besides, you've got that book to read."

As he was leaving Athos had pressed the well-worn tome on the art of warfare into his hand, no doubt a vain attempt to keep you out of trouble in my absence he'd said. The Gascon had initially been touched by Athos' kindness in doing all he could to further his training, even when he was drawn away on the King's business, but then he realised he would actually have to read the book. D'Artagnan had a quick mind but he had always preferred action to studying.

"It's alright for you," d'Artagnan huffed. "You like to read."

"Hey," Porthos cuffed him, none too gently, across the back of the head, his usually sunny demeanour darkening into a frown. "Education ain't something to be taken for granted and there ain't no-one finer than Athos to train you. Anything he wants to teach you is worth learning."

"I know, I'm sorry," d'Artagnan was instantly contrite, shoving his hands awkwardly in his pockets and casting his eyes upward to avoid that piercing gaze as his eyes stung with the justice of Porthos' words. All his friends had been more than generous with their time and expertise. Just because this was the first time Athos had left him to his own devices was no reason to be ungrateful. "It's just .."

He hadn't expected to miss the sheer joy of sparring with Athos so much that his heart ached, or that feeling of true confidence, rather than mere bravado, that came with Athos' steady presence at his side, that quiet look of approval, rather than censure, when d'Artagnan held true to his principles, the gentle touches which said he had found somewhere he could belong and that little nod of approval, deeply prized, which said he had done exceptionally well. He already felt the lack of Athos' physical presence like a gaping wound. He did not know how he was going to bear it if something went wrong and anything happened to him.

"He'll be alright you know," Porthos' tone was kind with understanding "And back before you know it."

"You and Aramis worry about him when he's gone," d'Artagnan lifted his chin, daring the other man to deny it.

"Only 'cause he doesn't always take proper care of himself, when we ain't there to keep an eye on him," Porthos' eyes darkened with some memory, before he managed a reassuring smile. "But he's a fine solider, he shouldn't come to too much harm in a few days. And," He raised a brow. "he'll expect you to 'ave finished that book by the time he gets back."

"I'd better make a start then." D'Artagnan acknowledged with a rueful smile.

As Porthos clapped him warmly on the shoulder and left, d'Artagnan poured himself a large glass of wine and settled down to read, flicking impatiently through the first few pages, to get to the actual text. To his surprise he was quickly drawn into the practical, and sometimes more than a little unorthodox, advice on how to defeat the enemy. He was about a third of the way through and reaching out to refill his wine glass when he felt the touch of cold metal to the nape of his neck.

"I distinctly recall somebody saying 'if I ever even think about drinking on an empty stomach ever again you have my permission to shoot me." Aramis' voice said.

D'Artagnan grinned as Aramis stowed his musket and came around to sit across from him. His friends seemed to delight in trying to sneak up on one another. Even Athos wasn't above such antics, although he called it useful practice for when our business requires stealth, whilst Porthos and Aramis took an unashamedly childlike glee in the process.

In truth he was glad to see that glint of mischief back in Aramis' eyes. In the aftermath of Marsac's death he had tried to be as normal as possible but it had all been a little forced. He had been quieter than usual, sticking close to his friends and seemingly having little appetite for any of his usual romantic or adventurous pursuits. It was good to see him gradually coming back to himself.

"I've decided there are worse tortures in life than being hung over." D'Artagnan waved the book at Aramis as his friend helped himself to a glass of wine. "I mean, it's not as bad as I thought but I still don't understand why I can't just be shown how to fight."

Aramis gave him a measuring look and d'Artagnan had the distinct feeling he was missing something important.

"Because on the battlefield, it's not just about defeating the man standing in front of you, a soldier needs to learn to see the bigger picture," Aramis said sagely, as reached over and plucked the book out of d'Artagnan's hand and turned it back to the title page, holding it so the Gascon would actually look. "And for an intelligent person that is an area where you can be remarkably unobservant."

There on the title page, in a younger version of Athos' flowing script was his name and a date. D'Artagnan automatically did the sum in his head. His mentor had had this book since he was sixteen. Underneath, there was a dedication in what seemed to be an even younger hand, To my dearest Athos, the best brother anyone could hope for, in grateful thanks for your sacrifice, Phillippe.

"I just thought he'd picked it up in that little book shop we stopped at next to the saddle makers, when he was looking for Porthos' birthday present," d'Artagnan admitted guiltily. Athos had kept so few items from his previous life at le Fere, this book must be greatly prized. "I didn't realise it was so important to him."

"I think Athos knows every word of that book by heart," Aramis smiled in memory. "He's had both Porthos and I read it. Learning ways to out think your opponent is often more valuable that being able to out shoot or outfight them, especially, when you run short on ammunition."

"You read this?" d'Artagnan teased. "But it doesn't even have a heroine!"

"I had actually read it before I met Athos, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings and it bears reading again," Aramis retorted, reminding d'Artagnan that for all his predilections for poetry, liturgical verse and romantic fiction, he was a professional solider at heart. "And you were the one who wanted to borrow The Merchant's Daughter so you could discover ways to woo the delightful Madame Bonacieux."

"I said that wasn't why, she's a marrined woman," d'Artagnan protested hotly. At Aramis' arched look he sighed. "It's just, she's so different to the farm girls I knew in Gascony. I wanted to learn more about her world."

"Of course."

Aramis tactfully did not mention that d'Artagnan had yet to return the book. Secretly, despite Porthos' advice to mind his own business, he was rather keen to play matchmaker for his young friends. In his opinion if Bonacieux could not keep such a wonderful woman as Constance happy then he deserved to be cockcolded. He made a small face, d'Artagnan with his provincial Gascon values probably wasn't quite ready to hear that just yet.

Maybe, after he had been in Paris a little longer.

"Who's Phillippe?" d'Artagnan was peering at the dedication. "And what did Athos sacrifice?"

"Phillippe is a horse breeder of Athos' acquaintance," Aramis thought there was no harm in telling that much. "And I have no idea what he sacrificed. Since I am insatiably curious I asked him when he first lent me the book and he said as it turned out nothing at all. Make of that what you will."

"Aramis," Robert the Garrison Blacksmith brought over a small cloth wrapped bundle. "I finished it. Just the way you asked. It's a right clever idea."

"Part of Porthos' birthday present," Aramis told d'Artagnan in response to his curious look, after he had thanked Robert for his labour and paid him the agreed sum. "Have you given any more thought as to what you might get him?"

"I thought perhaps a nice shirt," d'Artagnan ventured, looking to see if Aramis approved. He didn't have much money to spare but he had so few opportunities to repay his friends for their kindness he wanted to do something special. "Something, he could keep for best. Constance said she could give me a good price on an offcut from a large order of linen they've just got in for some important customer. She said she'll make it up for free as her present to Porthos, so the only really expensive bits will be the buttons and the lace."

"I can't help with the buttons but I can introduce you to a young lady of my acquaintance who can give you a good price on the lace, something that will suit Porthos' flair for the dramatic." Aramis offered kindly.

D'Artagnan didn't even care that he blushed a deep red as Porthos regarded the shirt with a delighted expression before declaring it the best one I've ever owned before pulling him into a tight hug and tousling his hair. He was just happy that his gift was a success. Aramis' present was a beautiful embossed leather belt with an elaborate silver buckle, which on closer inspection housed a wicked little knife in place of the tongue. Dead handy that for the next time we get captured, Porthos had beamed. Athos had presented him with a small, rather tatty looking, book which had d'Artagnan straightening in concern. Surely out of all of them Athos could afford something better? Until he realised the gift had actually moved Porthos to tears, as he hugged Athos fiercely. Apparently the book had some special meaning to him, which d'Artagnan supposed explained why Athos had been dragging him around every second hand bookshop in Paris in order to find a copy.

"You're a bloody marvel you are." Porthos had declared thickly. "All of you."

"Oh we're not done yet," Aramis beamed. "What kind of a birthday would it be without a party? Athos bought the wine. Treville contributed some bottles of brandy. Serge has gone all out with the cooking. And I have sourced some of the most perfect melons you will ever see."

"Melons?" d'Artagnan wondered.

"You'll see," Athos advised him dryly. "Some things cannot be explained. They simply must be experienced."

***********************************************************************************************

As mornings after the night before went it had been an extremely sobering experience to wake up to the news that Porthos had been arrested for murder. It was even worse to discover that he had had no memory of anything much after he had left the Garrison. Aramis had peered unhappily at the extremely large goose egg on the back of Porthos' head which but since it could have happened in a fight or a fall it shed absolutely no light on the matter.

Everything after that had been a revelation to d'Artagnan. The court of miracles where Porthos apparently had friends that even Aramis trusted to keep him safe. That one of the truest gentlemen d'Artagnan had ever met was born and raised amongst thieves. That Athos, the most dutiful of them all, was so tolerant of such depravity, dispensing alms and advice to the beggars instead of arresting them. And neither one of them had ever voiced the question burning uppermost in d'Artagnan's mind. After everything they had been prepared to do to clear Porthos' name he was beginning to realise these men were even closer than most brothers. It seemed there was nothing they would not do for each other.

"Oi, something's bothering you," Porthos nudged him. "This is supposed to be a celebration. So, spit it out."

D'Artagnan blinked as he was brought back to the sights and sounds of the tavern where the now un-condemned man had eaten a hearty meal. By mutual consent they had avoided the Wren, instead choosing a more respectable establishment, closer to the Garrison where the Musketeers were well known and Red Guards rarely ventured. None of them were looking for any trouble. Not tonight.

"I owe you an apology," d'Artagnan admitted, shamefaced. "The others never doubted you. But I thought maybe if it was an accident .."

"If I was drunk I might have killed him? I don't blame you," Porthos assured him, leaning over to tousle d'Artagnan's hair in a slightly clumsy way which suggested he was not entirely sober. "For a while there even I thought I had done it."

"They did everything they could to save you," d'Artagnan thought he might be a little drunk himself as he struggled to glance over at Athos and Aramis who were fetching more wine. "Aramis flirted with a woman old enough to be his grandmother, inspected corpses and kicked down doors. Athos faced down priests and noblemen. He even donned a disguise and went into the court looking for you. I think his feelings were hurt when you didn't want to see him."

"You oughtn't to have gone and done that," Porthos scowled fiercely at Athos as he put two fresh bottles of wine on the table. "The Court's no place for outsiders. You could have been killed."

"I defeated two of them easily," Athos neglected to mention the pistol to his head and the knife to his throat. "I only retreated because Charon told me you were safe. I imagine he did not bother to pass along my message that your friends would clear your name."

"Charon tried to turn me against you. He taunted me for my faith in you. Said you were nowhere to be seen, that you'd abandoned me first chance you got."

"Please," Aramis' tone was light, but the way his hand covered Porthos' where it rested on the table and squeezed gently, spoke volumes. "You should know by now it's not that easy to shake us off."

"I know," Porthos' eyes turned serious. "It's just. It's hard, you know. Coming face to face with the man you once was."

"Strange how that has happened to all three of us recently," Aramis mused. "Athos, returning to le Fere, me and Marsac, you seeing Flea and Charon for the first time in years. Its as if the Universe is trying to tell us something."

"What?" Porthos shook his head. "Don't look back?"

"Or perhaps, be grateful for what you have now," Athos surprised them all.

"Athos is right," Aramis agreed. "You left the Court for a reason and when you saw the gunpower you acted like a Musketeer. It's what saved the Court in the end."

"Flea told me you helped her," Porthos looked fondly at Athos. "I'm grateful. She really cares about the people in the Court. Lots of lives are going to be better 'cause of her. Charon was always more about what was in it for 'im."

"I cannot apologise for saving your life," Aramis told him. "But I am sorry that I had to kill your friend to do it."

"Don't be," Porthos shook his head sadly. "Charon was already looking for a way out. He never could have stayed in the Court after what he did. Better he died swiftly at your hand than what would have happened once people there found out how he betrayed them."

"I seem to be hearing that rather a lot lately." Aramis managed, with a shaky laugh. Athos silently topped up his glass and Porthos laid a warm hand on his shoulder.

"You know," d'Artagnan sensed a change of subject was in order. "Treville told us you had fought harder than any of us to become a Musketeer. It must have been quite a journey?"

"It started with Treville," Porthos grinned fondly. "I'd got into a fight with this man who was trying to force a young girl from the Court. She was all over dirt but beautiful with it, trying to scrape an honest living selling buttons. He wanted something more and thought because she was poor it was his for the taking. I wiped the floor with 'im. Treville saw everything. He liked the way I fought and the reason that I did it. He made it so I had a chance to earn my commission."

"What he won't tell you is how he came to catch the King's eye," Aramis brightened as he took over the conversation. "Think broken carriage wheel, sea of mud and an elderly dowager Duchess, the size of a house, in the in arms of her gallant rescuer, who she then insisted on kissing, full on the mouth."

"Not exactly my proudest moment," Porthos admitted ruefully. "But the King was grateful so it earned me my commission."

"Sometimes, it's just about being in the right place at the right time." Aramis agreed.

"What about you? How did you earn your commission?

"Oh, I had already been a solider for some time," Aramis was deliberately vague as to the reasons behind that. "During the visit of a Spanish envoy our noble Monarch organised a shooting competition between his entourage and the King's Guard. I carried all before me. Treville was just beginning to put together the Musketeers and before I knew it here I was."

"So, Porthos earned his commission through his physical strength, Aramis got his through his skill with a musket," d'Artagnan could not pretend he did not have a vested interest in the subject. He was desperate to find a way to earn his own commission. He looked at Athos. "You must have done something brilliant with a sword?"

"Actually, he was a proper hero." Porthos smiled.

***********************************************************************************************

The sound of galloping hoof beats approaching the musketeers' garrison in the centre of Paris never brought welcome news, accompanied as it inevitably was by the cries and curses of disgruntled citizens who were forced back to the sides of overcrowded streets or left to watch as their wares were overturned. According to the turn of the seasons the same unfortunates might be soaked by puddles, splattered with mud, or covered in clouds of dust. It spoke of a desperate urgently. Standing on his balcony as the exhausted messenger brought his foam flecked mount to shuddering halt in the middle of the courtyard, Treville knew the news would be bad.

"Captain Treville," The messenger called. "I have urgent news for Captain Treville."

"He's upstairs," Porthos approached the man. "I'll show you the way."

"Let me take your horse," Aramis offered. "She looks like she has run her heart out for you. We'll find her a nice, clean, dry, stall and make sure she has everything she needs."

"I have to get back there," The man looked anxious. "They'll need my help."

Both man and beast looked dead on their and fit for nothing. Whatever was going on it was bad. Aramis and Porthos exchanged an anxious look and it was clear they were both thinking the same thing.

Athos.

"Talk to Treville," Porthos, ever the practical one, decided. "He'll know what to do for the best."

Yesterday Treville had sent a select company of men under the command of the newly promoted Captain Cornet with the King on an overnight hunting trip. He had deliberately included Athos in the party in the hope that it would bring the fine swordsman and brilliant tactician to the King's notice, in order to earn his commission. He had decided that sending Aramis and Porthos as well would only encourage mischief.

He was regretting that now.

"A landslide?" Aramis paled, when he called them into his office to break the news. "How many were lost?"

"Apparently, it covered almost the whole village. It was simply too quick. The winter rains flooded the area and eroded the soil." Treville was grim. "It was merely good fortune that the King's entourage happened to be passing by. His Majesty ordered every able bodied man to render their assistance. Duc and Comte worked alongside ostlers and page boys to free the victims from the wreckage."

"And Athos?" Porthos asked, his tone full of worry for his friend.

"The King himself has reported how Athos worked tirelessly to free the survivors," Treville scrubbed a hand over his face. "After Cordet was injured, Athos oversaw everything, organising the searchers into teams, many more lives were saved due to his fine leadership. But if I know him he won't leave until he is quite sure nothing more can be done."

As the carts loaded with survivors began to roll in they all did their part. Aramis worked into the night tending to the wounded. Porthos carried copper after copper of hot water to clean away the mud and blood and offered around bowls of broth to fortify those who hovered between life and death.

"Athos took command as if he was born to it," Cordet told them, when he was helped into the infirmary, looking pale and wan due to his broken arm. "When I last saw him he was tired but focused on helping as many as possible. I am sure he will be back safely as soon as he can."

It was almost dark when the last cart arrived. A whole generation of children, plucked from their buried school room. A number bruised, battered and likely to be haunted with nightmares from their ordeal. But alive and well enough to find safety and solace as they were reunited with their loving parents.

And there, finally, was Athos.

He was almost unrecognisable. His uniform caked from head to toe with thick, grey, mud, his hat was missing, his hair was soaking wet and sticking up in wild tufts, his face was pale as a ghost and his usual piercing gaze dulled with the horrors he had seen, the dark circles under his eyes looking like deep bruises. And his hands, still encased in their black leather gloves, dripped little circles of blood into the dirt.

"Athos," Aramis was the first to approach him, stopping just short of touching him. "It's good to see you, my friend."

"Tend to the others," Athos ordered his voice hoarse with weariness. "They will have need of your skill."

"Everyone else is being cared for," Porthos assured him, stepping up beside Aramis. "Let us help you."

"I'm fine," Athos swayed noticeably. "I should report to Treville."

Porthos caught him firmly by the arm before he could list too far to recover his balance and pushed him down onto the bench by the table. That Athos did even appear to notice that he had been thus manhandled as his head simply dropped forward onto his chest only increased his friends' anxiety.

"You just sit there for a mo'," Porthos spoke kindly, giving Athos' shoulder a pat in reassurance. "I'll go fetch Treville."

Left alone together Aramis watched as Athos covered his face, the small spots of moisture appearing in the dirt by his feet and the trembling of his shoulders the only signs that he was grieving for those he had not been able to save. With a sigh Aramis stroked the unruly dark curls blinking away his own tears as he attempted to comfort his usually stoic friend.

"Here, this might 'elp him along." Serge appeared at his elbow bearing a bottle of the best wine the pantry had to offer. "It's the good stuff."

Aramis nodded his gratitude before pouring a large glass and kneeling down in the dirt beside his friend without the least sign of self-consciousness. Carefully placing one elegant hand on the exposed length of Athos' neck, he gently encouraged him to lift his head as he offered the drink. Athos eyed the glass for just a moment too long, before clumsily trying to wrap his injured hands around it. The glass shook noticeably as he attempted to bring it to his lips.

"Here, let me," Aramis intervened, taking the glass out of Athos' hands and ignoring the smears of blood on the stem as he held it to his friend's lips. "Drink what you can."

Athos obediently swallowed a few mouthfuls before wiping his glove across the back of his mouth and giving Aramis a grateful look as the wine seemed to revive him slightly. Grinning in relief Aramis gripped his thigh warmly in reply.

"Athos, thank God," Treville appeared looking tired and worn, but his eyes betraying his relief at seeing the last of his men finally home safe, even as he took in the state of him. "Are you hurt?"

"His hands are torn to shreds." Aramis spoke up.

"It's nothing," Athos used his teeth to pull off one of his ruined gloves, staring impassively at the palm of one hand, where the skin had been sliced and pierced by hours of laboriously moving rocks and stones, leaving deep lacerations. "It's just a few cuts."

Aramis, Porthos and Treville all exchanged worried looks that Athos simply did not seem to register the pain that such serious wounds must cause.

"And all that muck and the filthy water and the rest of it," Porthos reminded him gruffly. "Those cuts are gonna need tending."

"See to it," Treville ordered. "Athos, every man, woman, and child who survived owes their life to your quick thinking. The King wishes to honour you as soon as you are fit."

"And what becomes of the families of those who died in the mud and the mire because their Comte cared more about digging out a fishpond to supply his table than thinking about the safety and well-being of the tenants in the village who toiled to tend his lands?" Athos rasped his voice flat with fury. "Any fool could have foreseen that the land would become unstable when the winter rains came and what might occur. What honour will they receive?"

Treville's eyes flashed, even as his countenance visibly darkened at Athos words. He knew that the Comte who owned those particular lands, was young, arrogant and lackadaisical about his responsibilities, but he had never imagined such dangerous folly.

"The King will hear of it, you have my word," He vowed, putting a hand under Athos chin, forcing him to look him in the eye as he spoke the simple truth. "Do not blame yourself, you did everything you could."

"Come on, my friend," Aramis took that as his cue. "Time to let someone else take care of things for a while."

He took one side and Porthos took the other, wrapping their arms tightly around Athos neither seeming to care that they were getting mud all over themselves as Athos somehow found the strength, with the help of his friends, to stumble upstairs.

Between them they carefully stripped him, Aramis' clinical eye taking in the myriad of bruises and small cuts that littered his body. Bathed and dressed in clean linens, his hands dressed and bound in soft bandages they barely managed to get him to take a half a cup of broth, before he collapsed, boneless with exhaustion onto the freshly made bed. Porthos deftly rolled him sideways, pulling the covers out from underneath him and settling in beside him, wrapping him in his arms, determined to keep the nightmares at bay. Aramis was already stripped to his linens and about to slide in on the other side when Treville knocked softly and put his head around the door.

"How is he?"

Aramis took a moment to look at Athos, his face paler than the linen sheets, his shoulders mottled with bruises, Porthos' chin tucked neatly against his shoulder.

"He'll be fine."

"So I see," Treville's eyes softened as he took in Athos sleeping soundly in Porthos' embrace. "I wanted to let him know that the villagers have been promised funds from his Majesty's own coffers for rebuilding. And he is expected at the Palace tomorrow receive his commission. If he's fit for it?"

"Porthos and I have had his pauldron on hand for some time now," Aramis gave an impossibly fond smile at the man in the bed who he would gladly follow to hell and back. "He'll be there, if we have to carry him."

Athos was rendered speechless when he saw the care and workmanship his friends had put into creating his pauldron, gently running one injured thumb over the fleur de lys in awe. Treville had beamed like a proud parent as he buckled it into place. Aramis and Porthos had clapped louder than anyone and when an exhausted and injured Athos had reached even his limit and listed slightly to one side, Porthos' discreet hand under his elbow and the firm press of Aramis shoulder kept him upright and no-one else any the wiser.

***********************************************************************************************

"Hey," For the second time that night Porthos nudged d'Artagnan. "Don't look so glum. Your time'll come."

"I hope so."

D'Artagnan forced a smile. He wanted to be a Musketeer with all his heart, but even with his friends and Treville all championing his skills, it would all come to nothing if he couldn't find a way to catch the eye of their mercurial Monarch.

"I tell you want," Aramis put in expansively. "Treville has me running an errand tomorrow. Some secret package the Cardinal wants fetching to Paris in order safeguard royal security. Why don't I ask the Captain if you can come along? I don't have all the details yet but with the King, Cardinal and Treville all on board it could be an ideal opportunity to earn your commission."

"Really?" d'Artagnan brightened. "I'll do anything."

"What sort of package?" Athos enquired.

"I have no idea," Aramis said blithely. "I'm to report to Treville in the morning for my final orders. But apparently it's only a day's journey there and back and if Treville thought it was only a one man job how much trouble can it possibly be?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points to anyone who spots the nod to my former fanfiction favourite NCIS in one of Porthos' presents!


	13. Tag to Exiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis and Porthos are both worried about Athos. Just for completely different reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up - discussion of a cannon event, (Aramis' relationship with Isabelle and the loss of their child), reveals a particular sadness for another of our boys. Nothing graphic but you might need a tissue.

After days of brilliant sunshine the summer storm clouds were already gathering as Aramis bid adieu to Agnes and baby Henri. When the rains began they fell in earnest, accompanied by rumbles of thunder and brief flashes of lightening. Musketeer horses, schooled to face the sights and sounds of the battlefield, were generally impervious to all but the very worst conditions. But picking up on his rider's low mood, today Aramis' mount decided to be contrary, giving little, (and not so little), bucks, snapping his teeth at the others if they came too close, shaking his head, and scooting sideways at the least provocation, so that by the time they returned to the Garrison, Aramis had a pounding headache and aching muscles to add to his sodden clothes and wet boots. He could feel cold sweat running down his back even as he felt uncomfortably hot after wrestling with his horse for the last hour. Sliding off the beast with rather less than his usual grace, he stumbled and might have fallen if Porthos hadn't caught him by the arm.

"Whoa there," He peered at him. "You alright? You're looking a little pale?"

"No, no, I'm fine," Aramis protested. "Just a little tired."

"Then maybe you could let go of the saddle now?" d'Artagnan offered, not particularly helpfully in Aramis' opinion.

Aramis realised that all his friends had now dismounted and were standing in a circle watching him. Moving carefully he released his death grip on the saddle and turned on his heel, hoping that they wouldn't notice that he was now leaning against his horses' flank, trusting him to prop him upright. From the knowing look on Athos' face as he stepped forward until they were almost nose to nose he wasn't succeeding.

"You're sick." Athos declared.

"What? No! It's just been a rather uncomfortable ride, in weather not fit for man or beast. I don't get sick! I take care of you gentlemen when you get sick, sew you up when you get wounded, dig musket balls out of arms, set broken limbs," Part of Aramis' brain was aware he was babbling which didn't seem to be doing anything to take that look off Athos' face. But he didn't seem to be able to stop himself. "And this physician prescribes a decent meal, a good night's rest and everything'll be right as rain."

"Funny, I can think of at least a dozen times when you've been sick and you've been a stubborn fool about it every single time." Porthos gave no ground.

"You don't look well," Constance observed. "Why must men always be such idiots when they're sick?"

"I'm not sick." Aramis protested, much louder than he had intended.

In answer, Athos simply removed his glove and laid his palm across Aramis' forehead. A slightly desperate attempt to straighten up and look well was rather sabotaged by the way Aramis could not help closing his eyes in bliss as he leant into that comforting touch.

"Would you like to try that again?" Athos asked, quietly but firmly.

Aramis drew in a shuddering breath, thoughts of soft, clean linen sheets, cloths soaked in blessedly cool water, the sweet smell of fresh straw teasing his nostrils as he stretched out on a plump mattress, the comforting sounds of Porthos' snores nearby, with Athos' boots a reassuring weight propped on the edge of the bed, come unbidden to his mind.

"Perhaps, I'm not entirely well." He admitted.

Athos' hand on his forehead slipped down, lingering for a second to cup his fevered cheek, before it moved to give his neck a firm squeeze. Aramis opened his eyes to see Athos looking at him with such compassion and depth of understanding that he wondered if his friend could see right down into his soul.

There was something he needed to talk to Athos about his fuzzy brain reminded him.

"Blimey," Porthos was surprised. "You must be feelin' pretty bad to give in so quick."

"Really?" d'Artagnan was curious.

"Aramis is the worst of all of us when he's under the weather," Porthos explained. "Me, I have enough sense to know when I'm getting sick. Athos, he'll go on ignoring whatever ails him until he drops, but he behaves well enough once he's confined to a bed. Aramis takes the least infirmity as a personal offence. He's a dreadful patient. He won't eat what he's supposed to. He won't rest like he should. He's forever trying to get up and do things before he's ready. It's a nightmare trying to nurse 'im back to health, especially, if we can't be there the whole time."

"Um," Jaques the stable boy, who had been hovering nearby, spoke up. "Should I take the horses, or are you going out again?"

"I'll give you a hand," d'Artagnan offered, all too well aware how much work five wet horses and their sodden tack could make. "It'll go quicker with two of us."

The brief nod of approval he received from Athos warmed him. He was only doing what was right, but any praise from that quarter was always welcome.

"Come to Aramis' lodgings when you are done."

"Why don't you bring him to my house?" Constance offered. "Our other lodger moved out last week so the large room at the back is empty. From what you say he'll need someone to keep an eye on him when you're on duty. If I can nurse four brothers through all their foolishness I am sure I can cope."

"Won't your husband mind?" Porthos looked concerned for her. "We're not exactly his favourite people."

"He'll be away until the end of the month and he does enough business with the regiment. I am sure he can be persuaded that helping a Musketeer in his hour of need is in his interests."

"It would make a world of difference." Porthos looked at Athos.

"Don't I get a say in this?" Aramis protested.

"No." Three voices answered him.

"Then, if it would not be too much of an imposition, we would be in your debt," Athos' inclined his head respectfully. "We will, of course, reimburse you for your trouble."

"You're a fine one to be talking about debt and recompense monsieur," Constance sniffed. "When you won't take the smallest token of gratitude for all the assistance you've given me."

"Perhaps," Porthos intervened, when Athos just looked impassive. "We could just count this as a kindness between friends?"

And so, before he knew it, Aramis was installed in the light and bright room at the back of Bonacieux's house, with its generous sized bed and scrubbed wooden furniture. Stripped down to his linens and firmly tucked in he didn't bother to open his eyes as the mattress dipped under Porthos' weight and a damp cloth began gently wiping down his face and torso.

"You've had a hard time of things eh?" Porthos' voice spoke gently. "This Agnes and her baby reminded you of your Isabelle."

"It was a remarkable turn of events," Aramis' lips quirked, even as a look of sadness crossed his face. "There I was holding left holding the baby, whilst the good Madame Bonacieux faced down the ruffians with a sword."

"Yeah, I heard about that. Apparently, young d'Artagnan's been teaching her. Athos' face was a right picture when he found out."

"I can imagine," Aramis smiled, genuinely this time. His eyes popped open in concern. "He didn't scold him, did he? He should be proud. The lad taught her remarkably well."

"Naw, once he got over the shock, I think he actually approved. He said something about finding her a more suitable weapon. The whelp nearly choked on his apple."

"I wish I'd seen that." Aramis smiled.

"I'd 'ave paid good money to 'ave seen you crooning to the baby," Porthos spoke without a hint of teasing. "I'll bet it was adorable. You'd have made a real good father."

"Just a rather poor husband?" Aramis mocked himself.

"Says one of the most loyal men I know," Porthos scoffed gently, as he wiped his brow. "If anything you feel things too much. Look at how you helped out Agnes. Like a little family you were."

"When I looked at Henri I couldn't help but wonder what my child might have looked like," Part of Aramis brain was aware that fever and exhaustion was making him more than usually maudlin. But this was Porthos, who already knew him better than he knew himself. So, it hardly mattered. "From the moment Isabelle told me she was with child. I daydreamed about whether it would be a girl or a boy. I hoped it might have my eyes and her hair. I thought about how I would teach them to ride and to swim. How I would put them to bed at night and read them stories. I would lie with my hand on her stomach, feeling the baby quicken and imagine our lives together."

"I'm sorry you never got to have any of that. But I can't feel bad that it led you to us," Porthos said sincerely, patting his shoulder. Wanting to give him a moment's privacy, he stood up and went to put the bowl and the cloth on the dresser, keeping his back turned. "Do you think you could eat something?"

The sound of someone knocking something over as he hopped about trying to get his boot on before he had even located his breeches had him swearing in languages even Aramis did not know.

"Hey!" Turning back he was just in time to grab his arm before Aramis keeled over. Infuriated Porthos pushed him back down into the bed, tugged the boot off by its toe and threw it into the corner, well out of reach, before pulling the blankets back over him. "What do you think you're playin' at? Don't you think you can start with me, you stay put, do you hear?"

"I have to talk to Athos," Aramis struggled to sit up, using his grip on Porthos' sleeve to lever himself up. "I forgot before. But it's important. Otherwise you know how he is. He'll pretend it was nothing and it'll be too late to do anything."

"You think you were the only one who noticed?" Porthos shook his head at him. "Don't you worry, I'll see to Athos. You just get some rest, eh?"

He waited until Aramis had fallen asleep and d'Artagnan had come up to sit with him before going in search of Athos. The boy had looked a little startled as Porthos had reeled off his list of instructions, and the window, make sure to keep a special eye on that, or he'll be out of it like a shot but he had squared his shoulders and nodded seriously taking it all to heart.

Porthos found Athos in the courtyard at the Garrison doing sword drills with the kind of intensity that suggested he was trying to slay each of his demons one by one. And if the sweat pouring off him and the faint trembling in his limbs was any indication he'd been at it for too long already. He rubbed a hand over his face. He had caught the dark look in his friend's eyes when the King had talked about having to execute his mother. He knew was going have to tread carefully.

"How is he?" Athos asked, a little breathlessly, without pausing.

"Sleeping now, d'Artagnan's with him. He'll do fine. Not even Aramis can get into too much trouble when he's asleep."

"I'm sure d'Artagnan will rise to the occasion if required," Athos spoke with quiet confidence as he executed a rapid set of lunges, his blade cutting through the air in a whirl of movement. The Gascon had proved to be quite determined when needed. Then his mouth lifted in a glimmer of a smile. "And if Aramis gives him any trouble, Constance is there."

Deciding that enough was enough Porthos simply stepped forward, forcing Athos to bring his blade to a halt, a hair's breadth from his neck. Across the courtyard he heard one of the newer recruits exclaim at his foolhardiness at placing himself in the path of sword. Athos merely rolled his eyes at him, as he was forced to put up his blade. His control of a sword was legendary. Aramis had once frightened the life out a bunch of new recruits, by insisting on demonstrating Athos' precision by standing stock still in front of him as the sword flashed around him, never once making contact.

The part where Athos had finished by clipping the very end off of Aramis' goatee had been entirely deliberate.

"We're invited for supper," Porthos advised, putting a hand on Athos' shoulder and drawing him to one side, pushing him down into a seat before he fell down and pressing a glass of wine into his hand. "I thought I might wear that nice shirt d'Artagnan gave me. Show Constance how fine I look in her handiwork. You want to borrow something clean, maybe that one with the pearl buttons?"

Porthos knew it was something of gamble. They had never discussed the fact that Athos took comfort from wearing his friends' clothes when he was sick or hurting. Making the offer when he had no physical wounds might just be asking to be punched. He waited as Athos drowned the wine in one, took a deep breath, and then looked up at him, his eyes soft with gratitude.

"Thank you. I would be obliged."

Upstairs, in the relatively privacy of the empty barrack room, Porthos stood sentry as Athos stripped off his soiled shirt and began washing himself down. Deciding that the conversation might go a bit easier if Athos did not have to look at him he cleared his throat.

"It ain't the same thing, you know."

"Nor is it so very different," Athos did not pretend to misunderstand him. They had been through too much together for that. "The King had already shown mercy in banishing his mother. When she returned he was duty bound to execute her. Yet he chose to forgive her." Athos' tone was thick with self-recrimination.

"You're forgetting the King's mother tried and failed to oust him from the throne. In the end the only thing that was hurt was his pride, in that way it was nothing the same. That woman might have been your wife, but she murdered your flesh and blood. Ain't no way you could have let that stand."

"When she confronted me at la Fere she told me that she killed Thomas to save our love," Athos stilled as he remembered. "That he was a fool and a hypocrite who deserved to die. She thought I would understand that."

"Hypocrite?" Porthos frowned.

"A convenient excuse," Athos spoke flatly, without further explanation. "One that did not justify what she did. Thomas was young and too naïve for his own good. If only he had come to me with his concerns before confronting her he might have lived."

"You know I wouldn't have hesitated," Porthos vowed darkly. "Anyone harmed a hair on your head, I'd hunt 'em down and then make 'em suffer before I offed them."

"And if I killed Aramis, deliberately and without just cause?" Athos turned to look at him. "What then?"

Porthos felt a wash of cold. He hadn't thought of Athos' choice in quite those terms. He would hate Athos for destroying what they had, the three of them. His fingers would itch for revenge for Aramis, but to have to turn his blade against Athos? Just the thought of it made him sick. Everything they had shared couldn't be rubbed out just like that. He had always prided himself on being a survivor. Growing up in the Court he had fought to live and then to thrive against enormous odds. But something like that he thought could break him.

"Part of me would hate you, but I would probably end up hating myself even more," Porthos admitted. "Just like you hate yourself, for not seeing it coming, for not being able to help Thomas, or not being able to save her from herself."

Athos flinched as if he had been struck and Porthos knew he had it right.

"She slit my brother's throat and left him to die," He said roughly. "What kind of man would have any thoughts of her salvation after that?"

"A good man," Porthos countered firmly. "The kind who married for love, who cherished his wife and their happiness together, who couldn't suddenly block out everything he had ever felt just because the world had turned on its head. Still loving her for who she was to you, doesn't make you evil, it just makes you human."

"I thought you would be sickened by my weakness." Athos said quietly.

Porthos picked up the shirt he had laid out for Athos and began slipping his friend's arms into the holes, pulling it straight across his shoulders and carefully doing up the tiny buttons, one by one, the simple act of caring releasing some of the tension in Athos' shoulders. His large fingers meant getting the buttons in the holes was a bit hit and miss, making it slow going, but he preserved, glaring fiercely when Athos tried to intervene.

"You are one of the strongest men I know," Porthos told him. "To survive what you have done and kept on day to day is bloody marvellous. To still be able to treat those around you with kindness and compassion is nothing short of amazing. I just wish you weren't always so hard on yourself."

"It seems she did not escape the relationship unscathed. She told me that she still carried the token of my love," Athos revealed. "She showed me the scars the noose burnt around her neck."

"Seems only fair," Porthos surprised him as he nodded at the silver locket around his neck. "You still carry the token of her love, and if you ask me that silver chain binds you as tight as any shackles. You might as well have committed yourself to the Chatelet for the way it imprisons you."

"How so?" Athos asked.

"Well, even setting aside the fact that you thought she was dead but you still couldn't bring yourself to so much as look at a woman and you still can't even speak her name," Porthos sighed. "In all the time I've known you, I've not once heard you laugh. That just ain't right, my friend."

"In the beginning it seemed as if there was no longer any reason for mirth, when I had lost everything I held dear," Athos confessed. "Then as the time passed it became harder to remember the part of me that had ever felt so free of care. Even when I found two companions whose presence daily gladdens my heart it seems wrong to take joy in a new life I do not feel I merit."

"You don't think your Thomas would want you to be happy?" Porthos countered as he finished up with the buttons. "If I got killed and you started moping around, blaming yourself, I'd find some way to come back and give you a slap."

Porthos gave his cheek a little pat to emphasis his words, only mildly surprised when Athos silently expressed his gratitude by capturing it there and covering it with his own. Porthos leant forward and kissed his forehead as if in benediction. Lord knows they had both tried over the years to ease Athos' heavy conscience. When bringing him to mass, or nudging him, (without success), towards confession, had failed Aramis had pressed the rosary his grandmother had left him into his hand and closed his fingers around it. No man who has your compassion for others is beyond redemption, my friend. That had brought tears of gratitude to Athos' eyes and just a little more lightness to his soul. His friends had learnt to value every dry quip or quirk of his lips as a prize beyond riches.

"One of these days," Porthos spoke with utter conviction. "I'm gonna make you laugh right and proper. You just see if I don't."

To d'Artagnan's thinly disguised relief Aramis had done nothing but sleep in his friends' absence. However, the patient proved to be remarkably docile as Constance fed him spoonfuls of broth. When she came back downstairs with an almost empty bowl Porthos gave her an impressed look.

"Normally, he just whines about not getting 'real' food."

"Best not to leave him alone too long though," d'Artagnan rose to his feet. "The window is open."

"Not so fast," Porthos gave him a sharp look. "Constance's been good enough to invite us into her home and cook for us. The least we can do is clear up after ourselves. Athos can go sit with him."

"Why doesn't Athos have to clear up?" d'Artagnan pouted.

"Because, Athos generously bought the wine," Porthos reminded him. "Now get to it."

Afterwards they all piled into Aramis' sickroom with a round of glasses and a couple of bottles of wine. The patient was propped up in bed with pillows. Porthos, his boots carefully removed, stretched out beside him on top of the covers, Athos wassitting in a chair drawn up to the bed, with his stocking feet resting on Aramis' thigh. D'Artagnan was perched on the edge of the mattress next to his right ankle, as they talked of everything and nothing.

"I have a question," d'Artagnan spoke up with a mischievous look. "You're all always lecturing me of the dangers of becoming a Musketeer but which of you has had the most embarrassing injury?"

"Porthos," Aramis said at once, causing Athos to snort softly in amusement. "That time in the woods."

"Hey, that ain't exactly fair," Porthos protested. "Back then I'd hardly ever been out of Paris. Nobody told me there were plants out there which made you itch like fury."

"That sounds like an honest mistake," d'Artagnan commented mildly. "Why would it be so embarrassing?"

"Because the itching got so bad they had to wrap my hands in bandages to stop me scratching until I bled," Porthos admitted. "Which meant I couldn't do a thing for myself for days, not feed myself, not wash myself, not apply the lotion that Aramis said I needed three times a day on all the afflicted areas if you get my drift."

"Ah," D'Artagnan tipped his glass in acknowledgement. "My most sincere condolences."

"To be fair Aramis has also had more than his fair share of escapades," Athos put in dryly. "I vividly recall being required to sew up a sword wound in a particularly .. delicate spot."

"I was the victim of an unprovoked attack which resulted in a vicious cut to my leg," Aramis sniffed. "True friends would not find such amusement in my misfortune."

"Inner thigh would be a far more accurate description of the wound site." Athos raised a brow. "And it was hardly unprovoked."

"What he means is," Porthos clarified. "Aramis was caught in bed with a woman of rank, whose husband turned out to be quite handy with a sword and came pretty close to ensuring Athos' singing voice went up a couple of octaves."

"Really?" d'Artagnan sniggered.

"I can show you the scar if you wish." Aramis glared at him.

"Ah, no," d'Artagnan blushed hotly as he swiftly tried to get himself under control. "That really won't be necessary."

"Anyway, you are hardly blameless in this regard, my dear Athos. Remind me exactly how many times we have had to patch you up after your unfortunate misfortunes?" Aramis enquired loftily.

"Oh, almost weekly," Porthos grinned.

"I will not even dignify such nonsense with a response," Athos huffed. "It has only happened twice."

"That you remember," Porthos pointed out, earning a genuine look of surprise from Athos. He shrugged. "We do try to pitch you back upright if we can."

"Sometimes, when he gets a little drunk and has worryingly run himself into the ground yet again trying to take of everyone but himself," Aramis' voice somehow managed to sound affectionate and reproving all at once. "Athos has been known to fall asleep at the table."

"What's so embarrassing about that?" d'Artagnan wanted to know.

"Because this idiot is usually too exhausted to realise he's fallen face first into the candle and singed his beard off," Porthos grinned.

"There was this one time that it was so bad he had to shave the whole thing off. It really was quite adorable," Armais' grin was pure affection, even as Athos' ears turned a little pink. "He looked about twelve. Even Treville struggled to keep a straight face."

When Aramis visibly started to flag the others took the glasses downstairs to wash whilst Porthos helped to make him comfortable, stripping off the sweat soaked sheets and replacing them with fresh bedding, steadying him whilst he used the chamber pot, chivvying him into a clean, nightshirt. As he helped him lie back down he passed a hand over Aramis' forehead, noting with satisfaction that he wasn't quite as warm as he had been.

"Athos was wearing your shirt." Aramis murmured through heavy lidded eyes. "The one with the buttons."

"You noticed that, huh?" Porthos smiled as he pottered around the room, making things neat and closing the window against the cold night air. "He'd taken things to heart, like he always does. But I think I got to the heart of it. He thought we'd hate 'im because even though he hates what she did he can't shake off everything he felt for his wife."

"It stands to reason," Aramis mused. "Even if things go wrong, it's a remarkable bond, knowing a woman has carried your child. Did he say anything about the baby?"

"OK, now I know you're delirious," Porthos scowled. "Athos has never been a father."

"What did you think I was talking about before?" Aramis wondered. "I don't see why you find the idea so surprising. He was married and apparently much in love, children would have been the natural way of things."

"Not necessarily, look at Constance," Porthos objected. "She's been married for ages and she obviously longs to be a mum, and then there's the King and Queen. Sometimes, it just doesn't happen for some people."

"Have you ever known Athos to do anything by halves?" Aramis countered. "Trust me my friend, it happened."

When Athos had first seen Aramis holding the baby, a peculiar kind of shock had flashed across his features. It had only been there for an instant, before it was gone. But it was enough for Aramis to recognise the stricken look of a man who had at one time imagined himself as a father cradling an infant of his own.

"You're actually serious, ain't you," Porthos straightened in concern. "You really think Athos was a father?"

"Clearly the child did not thrive," Aramis acknowledged, feeling pained that his friend had been forced to endure the sadness he had felt when Isabelle had lost their child. "It might have died as an infant, or perhaps his wife lost the baby. But can you imagine Athos not feeling a father's desire to love and protect his son or daughter from the instance she told him she was with child?"

The sound of a cup shattering as it hit the floor, causing weak beef tea to spill across the scrubbed wood, was the first indication that they were no longer alone. Athos looked white as a ghost as he stood frozen in the doorway.

Porthos swore loudly.

"What's wrong?" d'Artagnan's voice called up the stairs, followed by footsteps on the stairs. "Did Aramis fall?"

It was enough to cause Athos to swift his weight slightly and Aramis just knew that if they let him leave now it would very bad indeed.

"Don't you dare," He pushed himself upright, ignoring the sharp flare of pain it caused in his head. "If you take one step towards that door I will use Porthos' musket here and shoot you in the leg."

"Eh, that's not actually loaded," Porthos shrugged apologetically. At Aramis' scathing look he tried to defend himself. "What, I wasn't gonna bring a loaded gun into Constance's house. That ain't exactly good manners, now is it?"

"What's going on?" d'Artagnan asked as he appeared in the door.

"Athos, I beg you," Aramis spoke quietly. "Please, just come here. Or I will spend the last of my strength trying to get to you and Porthos will be most displeased with both of us. Upon my honour I won't ask you a single question."

The hand he held out in entreaty shook visibly. But no-one in the room doubted he would be out of that bed the second Athos made a move to depart. The man in question looked up to the ceiling, as he sucked in a ragged breath, before he took first one and then another step towards the bed. At Aramis' quiet urging he toed off his boots, slipped off his jacket and settled on the bed beside him. Aramis immediately scooted over and rested his pounding head on his chest, pleased beyond measure when Athos became to run his fingers soothingly through his hair.

"Any child would be blessed to have you as a father," Aramis observed in Spanish.

Athos hand stilled.

"What?" Aramis reverted to English as he smiled against his chest. "I gave my word I wouldn't ask you any questions. You can't surely have been so foolish as to imagine I wouldn't speak?"

"Heaven forbid," Athos murmured, his voice a warm rumble in his chest, against Aramis' ear.

"You know Agnes said that she would have asked me to go with her and baby Henri. But she saw that I already have a family here. God may deny us certain joys in our life. But in his mercy there are other compensations. You lost one brother but gained two others who love you with all their hearts," Aramis switched back to Spanish in order not to embarrass d'Artagnan with his observations. "And, despite that you're not so far apart in age the boy looks to you for all those things a father might provide. A word of praise from you is worth ten times the approval of others. And you cannot deny that he growing up remarkably well under your guidance. Any day now he might even manage to grow a beard."

The snort of amusement that startled out of Athos, had Aramis smiling smugly, Porthos grinning broadly and d'Artagnan pouting.

"I'm going to learn Spanish." He threatened.

"Of course," Aramis agreed smoothly. "I would have begun your lessons sooner but I believed you to be fully occupied in having Porthos teach you to swear in multiple languages."

"Busted," Porthos grinned unrepentantly. "He's got a good ear though."

"And you said I was a trial." Aramis blinked up at Athos around a large yawn.

"You still are." Athos murmured. "But I am grateful .. for everything."

"C'mon," Porthos grinned as he swiftly scooped up the shards of broken pottery, grabbed a blushing d'Artagnan by the arm and towed him towards the stairs, making sure to close the bedroom door firmly behind them. "Let's leave 'em to it."

"Is Athos alright?" d'Artagnan worried.

"No better or worse than on any other day," Porthos sighed. "Which given everything that man's been through ain't saying a whole lot. It's a proper shame that falling in love brought him nothing but heartache. Having the right woman by his side would 'ave done 'im a power of good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies. That's all I have done for now. I have an outline for five or six more chapters and I am writing as fast as life allows!


	14. Ninon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos had made it a point to have as little as possible to do with woman over the last five years. Now he has to deal with two at once. Fortunately his friends are there to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan, of course. is conspicuous by his absence in the key trial scene, so I have had to accommodate that when thinking about where and when the boys are. A bit like Athos' hat. He's wearing it outside it the street with Ninon but as he runs through the door its disappeared!

Athos supposed that he should be grateful that his friends at least held their peace until they had taken their leave of the Comtesse de Larroque. Nothing was said until they were walking through the relative anonymity of the Parisian streets.

“You were gone for quite some time.” Aramis began.

“The Comtesse’s house contains several rooms,” Athos answered blandly. “I was merely being thorough.”

“So, she took you into every room?” d’Artagnan was grinning. “Nothing was off limits?”

“The Comtesse led me to believe that she had shown me the entirety of her residence. I have no reason to doubt her word.” Athos did not rise to the obvious implication that he had been in her bedchamber. For good measure he fixed d’Artagnan with a quelling look. “I presume that _is_ all you meant?”

“She’s a fine woman alright, proper quality, educated, intelligent, a quick wit,” Porthos wasn’t easily put off, as he bumped shoulders with Athos with a wicked grin. “And beautiful with it.”

“Gentlemen,” Athos huffed, as he came to a halt. “And I use that term advisedly. It’s hardly the first time a woman has paid me a compliment in your presence. I fail to see why you feel the need to drive me to distraction over it.”

“Ah, but this ain’t just _any_ woman.” Porthos put in with a hint of glee.

“Did you know that the King invited her to walk with him in the gardens and she _refused_ his company?” Aramis shrugged at the flash of surprise in Athos’ eyes.  “Treville might have mentioned it, in passing.”

“Be that as it may,” Despite himself Athos could help but feel somewhat flattered, which he knew had been Aramis’ intention. “That does not adequately explain your excessive interest in this matter.”

“Because, this time,” d’Artagnan leaned across as he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You like her.”

“Indeed.” Athos gave him a scathing look as he began walking again. “Since I am required to keep some infantile company being accused of mental vacancy will no doubt be the highlight of my week.”    

Back at the garrison Treville accepted the news that there was no sign of Fleur Baudin with resignation. Aramis wasn’t really listening, as his focus was entirely on Athos, who seemed unusually discomforted, even as he spoke strongly in Ninon’s defence, and when he caught Aramis staring at him he actually blushed before dropping his gaze to the floor.

_Oh_ , Aramis realised, as he straightened up.

Athos would most likely scoff at the comparison but the same skills that allowed Aramis to plan the perfect seduction also saw to it that in short order the two of them were lying on a riverbank an hour outside of Paris, under the guise of exercising the horses, passing a bottle of wine back and forth. And Aramis considered every single favour he had had to pledge in order to achieve this little scenario to be more than worth it, if it encouraged Athos to talk more freely than he would, anywhere there was a risk of being overheard.

“So, the delightful Comtesse de Larroque?” Aramis asked lazily, as if it was of no account.       

“She kissed me.” Athos discomfort vied with his earnest desire for some guidance.

“Ah,” Aramis said neutrally. He had thought it must be something like that. _She kissed me_ he noted, not _I kissed her_ but after five years of trying to encourage Athos to grant himself the smallest bit of female companionship he was happy to encourage the least glimmer of progress. “And how was that?”

“It was .. not an unpleasant experience.” Athos allowed. “I am invited to dine with her this evening.”

“Did you accept?” Aramis asked gently, knowing just what an enormous leap of faith this was for his friend.

“I said nothing,” Athos admitted. “I found myself somewhat taken aback. She took my silence for agreement.”

“Then, of course, you must go. It would be the height of bad manners to disappoint the lady now,” Aramis encouraged. He felt Athos tense beside him and softened his tone. “It’s just dinner. No doubt a decent vintage which you will enjoy and food of far better quality than you will be served if you sup with us at the Garrison. Albeit it with rather more silverware. But I’m sure you’ll acquit yourself perfectly well.”

“My table manners are hardly the part of the evening that disquiets me,” Athos rolled his eyes, forgetting to feel awkward just as Aramis had hoped. “When I married I gave my heart entirely. Given how it ended, I am really not inclined to repeat the experience.”

“Athos,” Aramis tapped his hand. “Given her attitude towards marriage I do not think there is any danger that the Comtesse is in the market for a husband. And there is much to be said for enjoying the company of an intriguing woman without any obligation.”

Athos knew that many might greet such a proclamation from Aramis with scorn or laughter. But he knew his friend genuinely enjoyed spending time with the fairer sex and the give and take of repartee. Aramis would happily pass an evening discussing poetry or religion. It was no lie when he said he always left it to the lady to decide if she wished to pursue anything more.

“You would be welcome to accompany me,” Athos offered quietly. “No doubt the women of the Comtesse’s circle could provide you with a congenial evening of debate.”

Aramis was deeply touched by the request. Not only that Athos would ask for his support in such a personal matter, but also his absolute faith that Aramis would behave like a perfect gentleman and, despite occasional appearances to the contrary, he prided himself on living up to Athos’ expectations.

“I would be honoured, my friend.

* * *

 

For once Aramis could not think of a word to say to make this any better. As they watched the Red Guards escort the Comtesse and the girls from the building Athos had cast him one, sharp, pained, glance and then completely shut down. When Aramis had touched his arm to gain his attention, Athos had simply moved away to retrieve his hat. _We must inform Treville_ he’d said, avoiding eye contact entirely _._ Aramis had no choice but to reach for his own hat and hurry to catch up. All the way to the Garrison Athos had kept his gaze averted and strode forth determinedly, every line of his body discouraging any further discussion.

“Wait here.” Athos ordered curtly as he headed towards Treville’s office.

Aramis briefly considered arguing, but decided it was better to pick his battles. Still, that didn’t stop him sweeping off his hat and watching Athos’ retreating back with worried eyes.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Instead of answering d’Artagnan’s question, Aramis sank down into a seat and poured himself a large glass of wine, drinking it down in full, before re-filling it with the sort of single minded determination that caused his friends to glance at each other in consternation. Behind him Athos’ boots stomped heavily up the stairs.

“Aramis, you’re scaring me,” Porthos reached out and caught his wrist, halting the ascent of the second glass before he could drink again. “What’s happened?”

“The Cardinal happened. He sent his Red Guards along to tear the Comtesse’s house apart looking for the missing girls,” Aramis paused before delivering the worst of it. “And then they found them.”

“She was hiding them all along?” d’Artagnan sat up a little straighter. “But she gave Athos her word Fleur Baudin wasn’t there.”

“She lied to him,” Porthos sick realisation coiling in his gut like a snake. He looked at Aramis and saw his own dismay reflected in his eyes. “He took it hard, didn’t he?”

“He did seem pretty angry.” D’Artagnan winced.

“He’s not angry. He’s hurt,” Aramis corrected wearily. He considered for a moment. “And maybe a little angry, if she had confided in him, he would have helped her. The good Lord knows he tried, he even took her to the morgue.”   

“He took the Comtesse de Larroque to the _morgue_?” d’Artagnan blinked. “ _That’s_ his idea of courting?”

“He was concerned that she was blind to the consequences of her actions.” Aramis supplied.

“He doesn’t approve of what she is doing?” d’Artagnan sounded surprised. He had thought Athos more enlightened.

“Now don’t start thinking like that,” Porthos chided. “What ‘ave we taught you about looking at the bigger picture? It’s not wanting women to have an education he’s worried about. It’s the way she’s going about it. It’s downright dangerous.”

“The Comtesse has been rather vocal in her views,” Aramis explained. “And she is rather blind to the fact that she is heading towards disaster. To so publically challenge the conservatism of the Church is bound to invite retribution, especially when there is a Papal envoy lodged at court.”

“I just hoped she might make him a bit happier,” d’Artagnan looked upset. “This really isn’t going to help matters.”

They all fell silent as Athos’ boots echoed along the walkway and down the stairs. To their collective surprise he did not even glance at their expectant faces, but kept straight on walking until he had made his way straight of the courtyard.

“I’ll go,” Porthos rose to his feet, despite the situation, he managed a wry smile. “It’s my turn.”

“Let him be, he’s not fit for company,” Treville’s voice ordered sharply from the balcony. “You three, get up here now.”

“There wasn’t any shouting.” D’Artagnan murmured, as he obeyed.

“That’s not necessarily a good sign.” Aramis replied, sotto voice, as they made their way upstairs. “Often, it means things are particularly bad.”

“Will somebody please tell me what’s got into him?” Treville demanded as soon as they entered his office. He leant forward to place his palms down on his desk as he gave each of them a searching look. “This morning he was the Comtesse’s greatest advocate, now he seems ready to wash his hands of her.”

“He’s a little upset,” Aramis allowed, rocking back on his heels. “But he won’t abandon her.”

“He’s just taken the whole thing a little bit .. personal.” Porthos tried to be delicate.

“I should have seen this coming,” Treville berated himself. “Her philanthropic ways are so like his brother.”

Thankfully he was too busy shaking his head to notice the startled look that passed between the three men standing in front of his desk at that particular revelation.

“Well don’t this just keep gettin’ better and better.” Porthos muttered. “That’ll be another reason he’s so keen to save her.”

“Besides the obvious one.” Aramis murmured.

“When you gentlemen are quite finished?” Treville glared, causing both men to hurriedly avert their gazes. “Given the Comtesse’s rank the Cardinal will have no choice but to bring the matter before the King. I’ll go to the Palace in the morning to see what can be done. Get some rest. And stay away from Athos. That’s an order. The way he is right now he’s liable to punch you and I’m in no mood to explain to the King why his Musketeers are fighting among themselves.”

Dismissed they trooped down the stairs and across the courtyard. Under the relative privacy of the archway d’Artagnan stopped.

“What about Athos?”

“You heard the Captain’s orders,” Aramis reminded him. “He’s not fit for company.”

“And if one of us shows up for roll call tomorrow with a black eye,” Porthos pressed the point. “We’ll all be in a whole barrel of trouble.”

D’Artagnan looked at them carefully. He genuinely couldn’t tell from their expressions if they were going to obey Treville or not. Whichever it was, he knew he wasn’t about to leave his best friend to his own devices, not when he was hurting this badly.

“We’re not company,” He spoke with quiet determination. “We’re his brothers.

* * *

The first thing Athos was aware of the next morning was the steady rumble of Porthos’ snoring in time to the rise and fall of the firm pillow behind his back. The second was how dry and gritty his eyes felt as he tried to prise them open.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               “Here, let me.” A familiar voice spoke quietly.

A damp cloth was gently wiped across his face, paying special attention to the stickiness gluing his eyes shut. This time as Athos blinked he found he could open them and the world swam into focus. Aramis was crouched down on his haunches, looking at him fondly. The way his hair was sticking up at all angles and his shirt was draped loosely around his shoulders, suggested that he had only just extricated himself from the nest of blankets they had made on the floor.

“It’s still early,” Aramis answered the question before he could ask. “Let the others sleep a little longer.”

Athos realised that he was lying in between Porthos’ legs. The man himself was sitting propped against the edge of the bed, his arms loosely wrapped around Athos as he cradled him against his chest. D’Artagnan was a strip of warmth pressed all down his left side, his head tucked under Athos’ arm and one hand curled in the folds of his shirt.

Athos pressed his lips together tightly.

“He’s not going to think any less of you because you’re human,” Aramis read his thoughts. “He loves you _because_ you care. It was his idea to come here even when Treville ordered us to keep our distance.”

“Really?” Athos regarded him fondly. “He’s never been  short on courage.”

“Or loyalty,” Aramis agreed. “Like a true Musketeer.”

As he dressed Athos recalled snatches of the night before, Porthos holding him tight and murmuring comfort into his hair as he sobbed, Aramis taking away the sour wine and replacing it with the smooth warmth of good brandy, and then threatening to hold his nose and pour the soup down his throat if he didn’t take just a little, d’Artagnan chattering away, telling embarrassing stories from his childhood stop Athos losing himself inside his own head.

_“So, I bet Pierre that I could make it across the brook in a single leap. My father had cut some poles to make new fencing and I thought I could swing across with a bit of run up.”_

_“The pole snapped and dumped you in the water, didn’t it?” Porthos guessed._

_“You missed your footing and landed in the mud,” Aramis decided._

_“Worse,” d’Artagnan shook his head. “The pole wasn’t bendy enough to carry me over. It got stuck fast and I was left clinging to the top in the middle of the water. It was only then I realised that a recent storm had made the current much deeper and faster than usual. So, there I was stranded up there holding on as tight as I could so I didn’t fall in and get swept away. Pierre had to go and get my father and it took a boat and half the farm hands called away from the ploughing to rescue me.”_

_“Bet that made you popular.” Porthos laughed._

_“Once when Thomas was sick I had tried everything I could to make him feel better but he had no appetite for treats and he was too restless for stories. So, I thought a visit from his pony might cheer him up.” Athos paused as he realised he hadn’t told this particular tale in years._

_“I remember doing that once,” Aramis encouraged him. “We brought my pony right into the kitchen and set him a place at the table. My mother was not amused.”_

_“Did you take it upstairs?” Athos asked, as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world._

_“You tried to take a pony upstairs?” Porthos was beaming._

_“My brother’s room was on the first floor,” Athos shrugged, as if it was obvious. “The main staircase was out of the question of course. But the back staircase had quite broad steps, made out of stone. The pony had been mine before he was Thomas’ so it only took a few apple slices and he followed me willingly enough. Thomas was overjoyed to see him as I recall.”_

_“How did you get him out again?” d’Artagnan wondered. In his experience horses would generally go up steps relatively well. But convincing them to walk down again was asking for trouble._

_“It was more challenging than I had expected,” Athos admitted. “It took several men, no small amount of rope, some large pieces of wood and the best part of a day.”_

“Are you ready?” Aramis’ voice brought him back to the present.

“Of course,” Athos turned to face his friends.

“If you even think about apologising I’m going to punch you.” Porthos spoke in a perfectly even tone. On either side of him Aramis tipped his head in agreement and d’Artagnan hooked his thumbs in his belt and regarded him with a placid smile which suggested he would hold Porthos’ hat for him.

“I was merely going to thank you for knowing me better than I know myself,” Athos looked everywhere but at them. “Your presence last night was greatly valued.”

“We know.” Aramis smirked.

“He means, you’re welcome.” d’Artagnan amended.

“Although, you really oughta get some more furniture,” Porthos pointed out. The others laughed and even Athos managed a smile. “I’m serious,” Porthos protested, as they headed out the door. “What would be so bad about having another couple of chairs?”

Part of Aramis wondered if Treville was right to assign them to the company escorting the Comtesse to the Monastery of the Holy Cross. When she had tried to speak with Athos, she had been prevented from doing so by Captain Trudeau, although the way Athos had pointedly averted his gaze was a concern. The Comtesse could hardly be expected to understand why Athos saw her actions as such a fundamental betrayal. Still, given the way Athos’ eyes softened, he was glad to see his words “ _She was protecting the girl. Not deceiving you,”_ had not fallen on entirely stony ground.

Maybe there was hope for the two of them yet.

* * *

Aramis stood with his head tilted back towards the sun, keeping half an eye on the archway that led to the monastery stables. The Cardinal was staying here until he was strong enough to travel. But the Queen was preparing to return to Paris. And the former Comtesse was to be spirited away to start her new life in exile from Paris.

“And I’m telling you he loves her,” Porthos was bickering with d’Artagnan. “That wasn’t duty or honour driving ‘im, that was proper feelings.”

“He’s only known her a few days,” d’Artagnan protested. “And this is Athos we’re talking about. He’s not the type to be swept away on a tide of romance. He hasn’t even kissed her.”

“Know that for a fact do you?” Porthos challenged. “You managed to kiss Constance before you even knew her name.”

“That was different, I was being chased,” d’Artagnan paused, as his brain caught up with what Porthos had implied. “You really think they’ve kissed?”

“Not so loud,” Porthos kicked him, as Athos’ led his horse into the monastery courtyard. “He’ll hear you.”

His patience finally rewarded, Aramis detached himself from the wall and walked over to where Athos was checking over his horse and tack. He watched for a moment as Athos tied his water skin into place, waiting until the other man looked over at him before speaking.

“I hear the Comtesse had asked for you personally to escort her to her destination and the Queen, in her mercy, has granted her request.”

“So, it appears.”

“You know,” Aramis stepped in a little closer, so as not to be overheard. “Even if you leave now, you _may_ not get there before nightfall. You _could_ be required to stay overnight at an Inn.”

Athos stilled. But his voice gave nothing away.

“We are accustomed to accompanying all manner of personages in the service of the crown. This is no different.”

“It is entirely different and you know it,” Aramis scolded him mildly. “And if you try and avoid the issue she is likely to take you unawares again.”

_That_ got him the exasperated glare he had been hoping for, as Athos tugged a little harder than strictly necessary on his stirrup leather.

“I have already told Ninon that I was married once and now I am done with romance.”

“What about kindness?” Aramis pressed. “Not every relationship has to be a grand passion. There is much to be said for the consolation of two souls coming together for a moment of mutual happiness. Ninon has narrowly escaped death, has been stripped of her status, land and wealth. Would you truly deny her the comfort of your arms?”

“No wonder your conquests are legion with some well-chosen words,” Athos favoured him with a smile that was both fond and exasperated. “ _No_ , Aramis.”

Aramis caught him by the collar of his jacket and turned him a little so they were face to face, pleased when Athos merely rolled his eyes at him, clearly willing to hear him out.

“Happiness is not a sin, Athos. Ninon knows her own mind and is not looking to trap you. She is offering herself with an open heart. This is not merely gratitude for saving her life, or solace for a desperate woman. Don’t forget, this is the woman who told the King ‘no’ but who very much desires your company.”

“I rather fear I would be a disappointment to her.” Athos admitted ruefully, with a hint of vulnerability.

Aramis almost crowed with delight. Now they were getting somewhere. This was something he could work with.

“You do yourself a great disservice, my friend.” He spoke warmly, making sure that Athos could hear the sincerity in his tone. “You are well read, with a sharp wit. How many times have you bested me when we have discussed philosophy? Hmm?”

“But I do not have your familiarity with romantic fiction,” Athos spoke dryly, as close to a jest about matters of the heart as he was ever likely to make.

“You are a true gentleman, you have no need of such artifice and Ninon already cares for you. And you cannot tell me you do not have feelings for her. Not after the way you pleaded for her life.”

“A fine woman facing a terrible death surely deserves my compassion,” Athos unconsciously echoed Aramis’ earlier sentiments. A slightly wounded look flashed across his features. “I have never claimed to be made of stone, Aramis.”

“Indeed you have not,” Aramis agreed sincerely. “I have benefitted from your infinite kindness too often to ever imagine such a thing, but such an impassioned plea came from the heart, my friend.”

“Ninon is a remarkable woman.” Athos smiled faintly.

Afterwards Aramis would freely admit _that_ was his moment of overconfidence. He truly believed that he had convinced his brother to follow his own heart for once. Except that, as Athos walked around the front of his horse to pull down his other stirrup, he happened to glance up and the smile dropped abruptly from his face and his expression darkened. 

“Athos?”

“This is .. I cannot,” Athos closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. When he opened them again he was strictly all business, signalling that the topic was now firmly closed. “We need to get on the road. I will see you in Paris tomorrow.”

As Athos led his horse away Aramis turned around to see what had caught his friend’s eye. Looking up at the Cardinal’s window he recognised the woman from the courtroom, Madame de la Chappelle, looking down with an unreadable expression.

“What’s got into ‘im now?” Porthos came up beside him, his eyes tracking Athos.

Aramis told him what had transpired. Although, by the time Porthos turned around at the window there was no longer any sign of the woman.

“Just because he refuses to acknowledge the depth of his feelings doesn’t mean he doesn’t have them,” Aramis sighed. “When she leaves Ninon will take a piece of his heart with her.”

“Ah, he’s got a big heart, he can spare a little bit and who knows what might happen in the future,” Porthos encouraged, not wanting to see Aramis so downcast. He knew his friend was thinking of his own situation with Agnes and baby Henri as well as his failure to help Athos. “Things change, he might see her again.”

“This is going to end badly,” Aramis worried. “We should follow him.”

“About that, I came to tell you, Treville and d’Artagnan are going to escort the Queen back to Paris with a company of Red Guards. Since Athos is going with our former Countess. He gave me our new orders.”

“Oh?” Aramis heart sank. He really didn’t want to let Athos out of his sight right now.

“He said we’re to get Athos’ head back on straight before he sets foot in the Garrison or he’ll have all our commissions.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Aramis said in an entirely different tone. He cheered up considerably. “Well, in that case we should _definitely_ follow him.”

* * *

The heavy rain meant the tap room of the Inn was busy with customers when Athos entered, shaking the water from his hat and cloak. He had just managed to secure a small table in the corner when two familiar figures appeared in the doorway, quickly scanning the room before heading towards him.

“What are you doing here?” He sighed.

“Well that’s a nice welcome, that is,” Porthos huffed, as he shed his cloak and hat and put them on the back of his chair.

“We thought you might get lonely, riding back to Paris on your own.”Aramis offered. “Plus if you were going to take any wine we thought it would be advisable for you to be among friends. For your beard’s sake, you understand.”

“I think I might need something stronger than wine.” Athos admitted wearily.

“Did things go so badly?” Aramis enquired, all teasing aside.

“I’m been meaning to thank you,” Athos looked at him. “I know how much you value the Queen’s gift. If things had ended differently it could have been lost to you. Yet you gave it willingly.”

“If it gave Ninon comfort, it would have been a small price to pay,” Aramis allowed. “But my motives were not entirely unselfish. I hoped God would see fit to spare you further pain. I could wish that part had gone better.”

“As outcomes go it was at least .. acceptable.”

“How did you leave it with her?” Porthos asked.

“That neither of us are the marrying kind.” Athos’ eyes grew distant.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged another uneasy glance. After a moment of silent communication, Aramis topped up Athos’ glass and Porthos put a hand on his arm as he began to speak.

“Look, there ain’t no easy way to say this. You took ten years off my life yesterday. Whoever that woman is or whatever she is to you, I won’t judge. But I need to know. Because I can’t keep you safe if I don’t know what’s goin’ on. And you scared me good and proper.”

Athos knew he only had himself to blame. To lose control so completely, in a public place, so that Treville of all people had to physically hold him back, and all over a woman, of course his friends would have questions.

“Athos,” Aramis encouraged. “Just tell us.”

“That woman,” Athos took a deep breath. “She is my wife.”

“She’s .. very beautiful.” Aramis observed, after a moment.

Athos gave a huff of sound, that might almost have been a laugh from another person, it was such an _Aramis_ thing to say that the heavy weight that was pressing on his heart eased somewhat. He still felt shaken to think of her being in Paris, his face, her voice, even the way she held her fan, bringing up memories he had believed long since buried. 

“So, Madame de la Chapelle?” Porthos ventured. “What’s that all about?”

“An alias I presume. Ninon mentioned her as a wealthy widow who is famous for her good works.”

“She weren’t being very charitable in court.” Porthos huffed.

“If she was at the Comtesse’s salon she would know that Ninon was attracted to you,” Aramis allowed. “You know how woman like to talk. Jealousy would be a powerful motive for revenge.”

“You are mistaken. Her only interest in me is to see me dead.” Athos assured.

“If that was the whole truth of it a musket ball in the back of your head could have finished the job years ago,” Porthos said bluntly. As the others looked at him with twin expressions of consternation he shrugged. “I’m just saying.”

“Ninon told me that my wife is acting as an agent of the Cardinal. She is under his protection. He’s likely to look kindly on any ploy of hers that will destroy the Musketeers.” Athos admitted.

“We just saved his life,” Porthos scowled. “A little gratitude would be nice.”

“That’s how they knew about the girls,” Aramis realised. “The only way the Red Guards could have been so certain the girls were there was if Ninon had confided in someone who then passed word to his Eminence.”

“If my wife is working for the Cardinal I must tell Treville. My relationship with her could lead the entire Regiment into disaster,” Athos looked grey at the thought.  “We must get back to Paris as soon as possible.”

“Treville can wait,” Porthos vetoed that. “We’re not going back to Paris tonight. You already look dead on your feet.”

“I have ridden much further with far worse.” Athos brushed aside his concern.

“Porthos is right,” Aramis agreed. “You need rest. If you go back out in this weather I am going to be spending the next week nursing you back to health. Now doesn’t a decent meal, a nice hot bath and a proper night’s sleep seem like a more inviting prospect?”

“My sleep is unlikely to be all that restful,” Athos remarked. “For any of us.”

“All this time and you think we can’t handle that?” Aramis chided. “Besides, Porthos’ snoring is a far greater disturbance.”

“And when we get back to Paris, we’ll all sit down and work out how we’re going to deal with things together. Alright?” Porthos’ tone brooked no argument.

Even so, Athos was about to object when he recalled the number of times he had berated himself for leaving Thomas alone. How often he had wished that they had been together so he could have defended his brother the way he was supposed to. He could not protect these men with his life, as he was utterly determined to do, if he pushed them away. But if he kept them close, if it came to it, at least he might have the comfort of dying in their arms.

“Very well,” He agreed. “After all, I do believe it’s Aramis’ turn to go first in the bathtub and who am I to deny him that pleasure?”

* * *

Later when Athos was finally sleeping, Aramis paused in drying his hair, his mouth thinning in concern as he placed a hand on his friend’s brow. It felt a little warm.

“Will you give over?” Porthos shook his head at him, from where he was already lying on Athos’ other side. “He doesn’t have a fever. He’s a little warm and flushed from the hot bath, that’s all.”

“I know,” Aramis acknowledged, as he tossed the towel aside and slipped under the covers, instinctively seeking out Athos’ warmth to counter the sharp chill of the sheets. “I just worry. I wish I could take some of his pain away.”

“He’ll come through this,” Porthos said robustly. “He’s got all of us watching out for him. You really want to fret about something you do know we’ve gone and left d’Artagnan to his own devices in Paris? Just think how much mischief he could get into whilst we’re away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm what can d'Artagnan possibly be up to back in Paris?


	15. The Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos supposed he should have expected it, but in truth, he had not imagined Anne would be so bold. But suddenly there she had been, standing in the middle of the street, smiling the exact same smile he remembered from the first time they met as she talked about killing him.

"I'm telling you he definitely has," Aramis insisted, the next morning, as he sat perched on the table in the Garrison courtyard, lovingly cleaning his musket, as they watched d'Artagnan spar with Athos. "Didn't you see the way he was grinning like a loon?"

"He hasn't," Porthos didn't believe it. They had only been gone one night. "She's a married woman and he's from Gascony."

"Ah, but Paris is the city of lovers and he's been here for a few months now," Aramis gently blew away a little gunpowder residue. "It stands to reason it would start to rub off on him eventually."

"I've lived here all my life and I don't go around sleepin' with married woman." Porthos pointed out. "And Constance ain't like that."

"Constance is a wonderful woman who was married too young to an older man who thinks too much of himself and does not appreciate her," Aramis reminded. "D'Artagnan is a fine young man, who worships the ground she walks on. And they are both our friends. Who are we to deny them a little happiness?"

"Well, when you put it like that," Porthos conceded. He watched as Athos pushed d'Artagnan back across the courtyard, forcing him on the defensive. "Athos might not be so easy to convince. You know how he can be."

"He loves d'Artagnan and desires his happiness above his own, he is extremely fond of Constance, and he has no time for Bonacieux," Aramis said plainly. "Besides, this  _is_  Athos, he will have realised what's going on the moment he saw d'Artagnan looking all doe eyed. If he was going to scold him for it he would have done so already."

"So, the only one who doesn't realise that we all know d'Artagnan has taken up with Constance is the whelp himself?" Porthos struggled to contain his amusement.

"And Treville," Aramis tipped his head on one side. "Possibly Jaques."

"Speaking of Treville," Porthos straightened up, as their Captain's horse trotted into the courtyard. "Here he comes."

Aramis followed his gaze and carefully put down his musket. As one the two of them turned to look at Athos, who had now stopped fighting and was standing stock still as he tracked Treville's movements as he dismounted, handed off his horse and made his way up the stairs. Following his gaze d'Artagnan looked on in confusion, his frown deepening as he saw Aramis and Porthos grave expressions.

"Alright," He spread his arms. "What have I missed?

* * *

 

Athos stood at attention in front of Treville's desk as he waited for him to finish up on some paperwork. It was rare that he was kept waiting like this. It wasn't the Captain's way to have his men stand on ceremony in private and as his Lieutenant and friend Athos was allowed even more leeway than most, which is how he knew this was well deserved punishment for his outburst at the Comtesse de Larroque's trial. A Musketeer was expected to show discipline and restraint. So he stood absolutely straight still, resolutely ignoring the stiffness in his shoulders and the quiet throb of the small burn on his wrist from the pyre, which Aramis had tutted over.

"Did Ninon get safely to her destination?" Treville finally looked up.

"Everything went as intended." Athos acknowledged.

Treville sat back in his chair and looked intently at his Lieutenant. Athos kept his expression carefully blank. He was no raw recruit to squirm under that gaze. But that did nothing to dispel the tight knot in his chest. Treville had been like a second father to him and he would rather cut off his sword arm than have caused the look of disappointment he was levelling at him now.

And the Captain did not even know the worst of it yet.

"Are you fit for duty?" Treville asked pointedly.

Athos  _did_ flinch at that. If the accusation had been unfounded he could have taken refuge in anger or pride. But his outburst  _had_  been unworthy of the uniform he wore. Whatever his motives it had hardly been the time or the place to act in such a manner. And, to make matters worse, no doubt the Cardinal had revealed in telling Treville that one of his proud Musketeers had got down on his knees and begged for the life of a woman already convicted by her own hand.

"Yes."

Treville's eyes narrowed. Athos' tone was perfectly level. If it had been any other man he would say it bordered on insubordination. He had expected him to apologise, explain, or at least try to excuse his behaviour. Treville might have expected to see such unbridled emotion from Porthos, who tended to wear his heart on his sleeve, and he had seen Aramis' limits being tested first hand thanks to Marsac, but for  _Athos_  to forget himself so completely? He knew it was unfair and unreasonable, but it felt like a personal betrayal.

"That woman, Madame de la Chapelle," Treville knew his voice was cold, but God help him, if Athos told him he had made a scene because of some scorned mistress he was going to kill him. "How do you know her?"

Athos opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He closed it, swallowed hard and visibly tried to gather himself. But he still did not answer. Two pink spots of utter mortification bloomed in his pale face. He actually looked like he might be about to be ill. In spite of himself, Treville found he was leaning forward in concern.

"She is his wife." Aramis' voice offered unexpectedly.

Athos closed his eyes briefly, when he opened then again he looked altogether more recognisable, as a familiar expression of exasperation passed across his features.

"I thought we agreed you three would wait outside?" He said pointedly.

"You asked us to wait outside and we agreed," d'Artagnan nodded, as the three came forward. "But you never said how long we had to wait."

"So, we waited for a bit and then we decided to come in." Porthos said, as if it should be obvious.

Treville knew he should protest the intrusion but he could not help but admire the loyalty of these men as they came to stand on either side of Athos. Protective was not a strong enough word to describe their stance, if the very hounds of hell had come after Athos at that moment, the Captain had no doubt that they would have ended up lying slain about his feet without harming a hair on his head.

"Wait," He frowned at all four of them, as he realised what Aramis had actually said. "Athos' wife is dead."

"Yeah, about that," Porthos made a face. "It's a bit of a long story."

"You got married again?"

Treville certainly hadn't expected that. Athos had seemed so broken by events at la Fere. And he had never mentioned any woman, even in passing, apart from a chivalrous interest in Madame Bonacieux. Treville had even scoffed openly at the Cardinal's insinuations about the Comtesse de Larroque.

"What!" d'Artagnan was shocked on his mentor's behalf. "No, it's nothing like that."

"As it turns out," Aramis laid a hand on the boy's arm to calm him. "The present Madame de la Chappelle is the former Comtesse de le Fere. To cut a long story short, she is alive and well and presently working as an assassin in the employ of the Cardinal."

Treville quirked a single brow at Athos, asking for confirmation, Athos gave an almost imperceptible nod in return.

"As you can imagine, I was somewhat discomforted to see her," Athos seemed to draw sufficient strength from the presence of his friends to find his voice. "All the more so, because her lies were being used to condemn a woman I .. admire. I apologise for my outburst. I am now better prepared should our paths cross again. "

"I see," Treville scrubbed a hand over his face. "I think this calls for a drink."

He got to his feet, touching Athos' on the shoulder as he passed behind him, as much in guilt at his previous unwarranted assumptions, as comfort for the man's understandable turmoil. He had not forgotten or forgiven what that woman had done to him. Crossing to the cabinet where the good brandy was kept he poured five glasses. Passing them out to his men, he gave little nods of approval to Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan for their loyalty and held Athos' gaze for a moment as he touched their glasses together in a show of support. Then, leaning back against the front of his desk, he regarded his men.

"How long have you known about this?"

"I think it started when Athos was sent to the Chatelet." Porthos said helpfully.

* * *

 

Treville had taken Athos at his word that he was fit for duty. He knew more than most the inner strength the man possessed. His only concession to the sense of impending danger was to make sure to keep the four of them together. And if Aramis and Porthos were keeping a closer eye on Athos they were careful not to let him catch them at it too often.

D'Artagnan did not appear to  _do_  anything in particular. But Aramis and Porthos smiled indulgently at the way that in his company Athos began to share stories of his own sword training or his skill in gentling difficult horses. It was as if having a younger brother to guide and teach was reminding him of the man he used to be. For his part d'Artagnan thrived under his attention until it was universally recognised that he was ready to join the Regiment.

" _You are a Musketeer in all but name. All you lack is the King's commission."_

Athos' words echoed hollowly in d'Artagnan's mind as he sat slumped under the archway, still reeling from Treville's news that his farm was destroyed. Everything his father had spent his life working for gone in an instant. Everything he had dreamed of snatched away from him just as it seemed without his grasp. He did not know what was worst. Imagining how disappointed his father would be that he had lost the farm. Or thinking of his own prospects, forced to return to Gascony and seek work as a farm labourer.

"Treville told me," Athos was suddenly in front of him. "You have my sympathies."

D'Artagnan swiped an arm across his face, struck by the irony of it. He had comforted Athos as his mansion was razed to the ground, now his own family home was nothing more than a burnt out shell.  _Oh God_ , everything was gone. The quilt his mother had spent countless evenings piecing together to keep him warm. The stool his father had made so his son could reach to groom his beloved pony. He had nothing to his name but his horse, his sword, and a handful of belongings.

"My father would be so disappointed in me."

"Would your father have wanted you to give up?" Athos challenged.

D'Artagnan shot him a wounded look. He had not expected to be cosseted. But a little empathy for his plight, maybe some constructive advice, would have been welcome. To his surprise Athos actually looked a little abashed, as if he had been more abrupt than he intended, before holding out a hand to pull d'Artagnan to his feet.

"Not here."

To d'Artagnan's surprise they did not go to the tavern, but to Athos' own lodgings. After rummaging around for a bit he produced a bottle of wine that even d'Artagnan could tell was what Porthos would call "the good stuff" as they settled on the floor and used the seat of the sole chair as a table.

"My father never wanted me to become a Musketeer," Athos surprised him as he poured the wine. "He would have been extremely disappointed in me. My duty was to take my place as the Comte de le Fere, even though I had no taste for court pleasures or politics."

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan dared. "But I think you would have made a dreadful courtier."

Athos' lips quirked slightly in agreement.

"Our obligations to our parents can be a heavy burden. I was at my happiest with a sword in my hand. I had little taste for the trappings of nobility. I hated the clothes, servants made me uncomfortable court, gossip bored me beyond measure. In that respect, Thomas would have been much better suited to the role than I. He enjoyed the theatre of it all and did not take any of it too seriously."

He took a long swallow of wine and then eyed d'Artagnan seriously.

"If I may return the sentiment, you do not have the temperament to be a farmer. But you have the makings of a fine Musketeer."

"My father didn't think I had the makings of any kind of soldier," d'Artagnan admitted, feeling warmed by the praise. He knew Athos was not a man to say such things lightly. "He thought I was too hot headed and would be dead within a week."

"You do have a tendency to be somewhat rash. But no Musketeer stands or falls entirely on his own merits. We find our strength in each other," Athos placed a hand on his thigh and squeezed encouragingly. "You are our brother, d'Artagnan. "We will not see you destitute."

D'Artagnan was touched and a little startled. Aramis and Porthos, like most soldiers, lived from day to day. They certainly could not afford to support him. Even Athos, was not one to flaunt his wealth, or pander to him friends' whims. Although, d'Artagnan had not missed the fact that he always ensured there was plenty of food and drink to go around and if one of them was sick or injured,  _nothing_  was too much trouble or expense to see to their comfort. Athos sometimes made half-hearted references to getting Treville to repay him. But they all knew he never did.

"You are the kindest and best friend I could have," d'Artagnan said sincerely. "But if I cannot secure my commission there's no reason for me to remain in Paris."

"You would leave." Athos' words were not a question.

"I can't wait forever," d'Artagnan bit his lip. The idea of just hanging around the Garrison until he became the target of sidelong glances and knowing sniggers, whilst Treville tried to find the words to tell him he had worn out his welcome, was mortifying. "If I don't secure my commission soon, I will have no choice but to return to Gascony."

* * *

Athos supposed he should have expected it, but in truth, he had not imagined Anne would be so bold. But suddenly there she had been, standing in the middle of the street, smiling the exact same smile he remembered from the first time they met as she talked about killing him.

_Thank God he had sent the boy on his way._

He cursed softly as being lost in his thoughts caused him to stumble over his own boots. He forced himself to concentrate. But as he made his way down the street he felt his body becoming chilled and his skin growing clammy with sweat. His realised his hands were beginning to shake and his legs felt weak even as waves of sickness rose up from his belly. Abruptly, he was forced to bend double, as he emptied his stomach. Sheer determination pushed him onwards, putting a hand on the wall to steady himself. Reaching a door as familiar as his own, he thanked God that Aramis resided on the ground floor, as he staggered over the threshold.

"Athos!" Porthos, was at his side in an instant, taking his arm in a firm grip to prevent him from toppling over. The smell of vomit made him frown. There was no way a hardened drinker like Athos could have got falling down drunk in the short time they had been apart. "What happened?"

"Where are you hurt, my friend?" Aramis deft hands were already working to strip off his weapons and jacket, before placing a hand under his chin, those long, elegant, fingers a warm pressure on his chilled skin as he turned his head this way and that and then began moving down his body pulling open his shirt as he searched for an injury, fearing that for Athos to be this pale and unsteady he must have lost a great deal of blood. "Was it a blade or musket?"

"No, no," Athos tried to step away from their hands. "I am unharmed."

"The hell you are," Worry made Porthos' tone sharp. "You might not be bleeding but you look like death warmed up."

"Is it d'Artagnan?" Aramis asked with sudden insight. He knew how hard Athos would take it if anything happened to the Gascon. "Tell me he didn't go after leBarge?"

"Yes, no," Aware that his friends were looking more concerned by the second Athos tried to gather his wits. "The boy went to the Bastille to kill Lebarge. But I followed him. He is perfectly well."

"Then what is it?" Porthos insisted. "What's wrong with you?"

"I think, .. I might be losing my mind." Athos was horrified to hear his voice break.

"No, you ain't," Porthos countered with such resolute kindness that Athos truly wanted to weep. "You're just a bit upset, right now. Tell us what's going on and things won't seem so bad after that."

"On the way back from the Bastille I saw my wife," He raised his head and realised by the little frown in the middle of Porthos' forehead that he had not made himself entirely clear. "I  _spoke_ to her." The frown deepened into a look of consternation. Athos forced himself to add the unbearable part. "We kissed."

Aramis swore in Spanish.

Coward that he was, Athos closed his eyes, not able to bear the look of disgust he would surely see on his friends faces. He braced himself for the outrage that must surely follow and for which he had no response. What  _had_  he been thinking? What on earth  _had_  got into him? What kind of a man  _kissed_  the woman who had murdered his brother? How could a soldier who was supposed to be a model of honour and discipline let such  _base_  carnal, desires control him?

He was  _not_  expecting to feel Porthos' arms come to wrap gently around him and pull him in so tight against him that he could feel him breathing, one large hand threading through his hair to guide his head down onto his shoulder. Desperate to reject such unwarranted kindness Athos tried to pull away from those scents of freshly laundered linen, musk and the sharp tang of metal that said Porthos. But even as he made the attempt he found himself hugged all the tighter for it.

"Sssh, easy now," Porthos soothed, wondering if Athos even realised how violently he was trembling in his grasp. "It's alright. It's all gonna to be just fine."

"Bring him through here." Aramis' voice said.

Athos felt himself being led. He was sat down on something that gave slightly under his weight.  _Aramis' bed_ , the still slightly functioning part of his mind supplied. To his relief Porthos sat down beside him, one arm wrapping around his shaking shoulders and his hand a point of warmth on his juddering leg, as if he knew he was the only thing holding Athos together just now.

"Athos listen to me," Aramis' tone was calm but resolute. "I need you to open your eyes, can you do that for me?"

Athos took a shuddering breath. He wasn't at all sure he could. He definitely didn't  _want_  to. It would be so much easier to just loose himself in the darkness. But Porthos' touch was still there, stopping him from spiralling further down. And Aramis had said he needed him to do it. Athos could ignore the other man's myriad wants, wishes and desires, knowing that another passing fancy would take its place soon enough. But he had never been any to deny Aramis anything he actually  _needed_. As he opened his eyes he was rewarded by seeing his friend's anxious expression melt into happy relief.

"You never lack courage, my friend," Aramis approved, with a warm smile. He cupped a hand around the back of Athos' head as he raised a cup of liquid to his lips. "Drink some of this."

Athos expected wine, so the honeyed smoothness of Aramis best brandy was an unexpected kindness. Its gentle warmth spread through his chest and began to chase the deathly chill from his body. He came back to himself enough to try and dispel the shaking, by opening and closing his hands, as Aramis knelt by his side and fed him more sips of brandy.

"Better?" Aramis sat back in his haunches, his eyes still full of concern.

"I believe so." Athos managed a weak nod.

"It's the shock, that's what it is," Porthos said matter of factly, as he reached for a blanket and tucked it over Athos' shoulders. Absently, Athos recognised it as one he had bought for Aramis not long after Savoy when it seemed the man could never get warm enough. "After everything, it was bound to 'appen sooner or later."

Athos opened his mouth to dispute that. They had all seen soldiers cold, clammy and shaking as their bodies fought to release the aftermath of battle. But he had never found himself so utterly overwhelmed, at least not after a fight. Granted this was not unlike his reaction when Thomas had been killed. Not at the time, in that moment he had been consumed by utter fury, but afterwards, when all his guilt and pain and sorrow had come crashing down he had been just this way. Except far worse, because then it had been a full day before Phillippe had found him.

"Athos!," The tone was sharp, as was the slap on his face springing his eyes open again.  _When had he closed them?_  Aramis' expression was such pure terror, that he wondered how many times he had already called his name. But instantly Aramis was smiling again and patting his cheek gently in apology. "Try and stay with us, my friend."

He could not manage the rich, meat stew as his unsettled stomach rebelled to bring back up every mouthful he had forced down. But later he was recovered enough to swallow a little beef broth and a few morsels of dry bread, and eventually to gather his wits sufficiently to tell his friends that Anne had confirmed that the Cardinal was her patron with everything that implied.

"So, in a funny way right now, it's the Cardinal that's keeping you alive." Porthos ran his fingers idly through Athos hair, as they all sprawled on Aramis' bed. "If she had put a knife in you tonight Treville would have torn Paris apart looking for your killer. And the Cardinal would throw her to the wolves before he would allow it to be known that the chief minister of the Crown was keeping his own personal assassin."

"However, I am under no illusions that those circumstances will endure indefinitely. Anne has already proven that she intends to find a way to make the Cardinal's ends serve her own purposes," Athos glanced at his friends and saw the memory of the firing squad at the Chatelet in their grim expressions. "We must all be on our guard."

"My dear Athos," Aramis patted his shoulder. "People are always trying to kill us. At least, this time we have some idea of what we are facing."

"So," Porthos spoke after a moment. "Her name would be Anne then?"

* * *

The next morning a sweating and exhausted d'Artagnan took advantage of a brief lull in his training with Athos to regard the horse trough and the adjacent bucket with a thoughtful glance, before he decided to simply take a leaf out of his mentor's book and immerse his entire head and shoulders in the cooling water.

"You alright there?" Porthos' amused voice asked, as he came back up, spraying droplets of water around him as shook his hair dry. "Want me to give you a proper dunking?"

"Maybe, another time," d'Artagnan grinned at him, as he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it off his face. "Right now, I'm too busy aching in places I didn't even know I had muscles."

"He just wants you to win, you know that, right?" Porthos looked concerned.

"I know," d'Artagnan cast an impossibly fond look at Athos across the courtyard. "Right, now I'd be happy just to land a hit."

"On Athos?" Porthos laughed. "Dream on."

"You're in a very good mood," d'Artagnan realised, as the two of them walked across to sit down on either side of Athos. "Does that mean what I think it means?"

"I've got the 30 livres, if that's what you're hinting at," Porthos poured them both a drink. He was too much ofa gentlemen to say any more. He would introduce Alice to his friends when the time was right. "I think Aramis might have over-reached himself a bit this time though. She's talking about having a tea party for all her friends to show 'im off."

"What about you?" d'Artagnan asked Athos. His mentor had yet to say a word on the matter either way. "LeBlanc thinks the prize purse will be over a thousand livres," He gave him a teasing look. "That much could buy an awful lot of wine."

"I have no intention of putting myself forward," Athos shook his head. With the honour of the regiment at stake the odds that Treville would chose him over d'Artagnan, were simply too great. "My sole interest in this competition is to see you secure your commission."

With that Athos reached into his pocket and produced a small pouch of money which he placed in front of the Gascon. D'Artagnan's mouth suddenly went dry and he found himself unable to speak.  _Surely not?_

"There would hardly be any point in training you, if you lacked the means to enter the contest," Athos laconically confirmed his suspicions. "You can pay me back when you win."

D'Artagnan felt an idiot. Of course, Athos would not spend all that time preparing him and then risk him not being able to raise the entrance fee, but still,  _30 livres_. It was one thing for him to cockily tell Milady de Winter that would pay her back when he won it was quite another for Athos to have that much faith in him.

"I can't take this." He found his voice.

Athos stiffened slightly and d'Artagnan hastened to explain. His friend had already endeavoured not to offend his Gascon pride by making it was merely a loan. He didn't want Athos thinking he was ungrateful.

"I am already so beholden to you for all your kindness," d'Artagnan hoped Athos could see he meant every word. "It would not be right to take your money as well, when I already have the entrance fee."

"Where did you get 30 livres, eh?" Porthos gave him an old fashioned look

"Just a friend," d'Artagnan could feel himself blushing. "I'm going to pay back every sous."

He was horribly afraid his friends would have more questions, but Porthos raised a single brow at Athos and to his surprise that seemed to be the end of the matter. Picking up the small bag of money d'Artagnan picked it up and offered it back.

"I told Treville I wasn't asking for a favour. Only for a chance to prove myself, I can't do that unless I am up against the best. When I gain my commission I need to know it's because I deserve it."

"You do deserve it, as much for having the heart of a musketeer as your skill on the practice ground," Athos praised his integrity. "But if you must insist, I will compete. Allow me one more word of advice before we become opponents?"

"Of course."

"Aramis, Porthos and I will be the ones you need to beat. Not only have do we all have our own strengths but we have drilled each other in our specialisms. You know our manner of fighting better than anyone else. Ensure you use that to your advantage."

"I will."

Athos waited until d'Artagnan was out of earshot before looking at Porthos.

"You know something, where  _did_  he get 30 livres?"

* * *

The next morning, looking slightly the worse for wear from his own efforts to secure the required fee, Aramis had asked exactly the same question. To Porthos' amusement he had looked faintly offended by the fact that the whelp had not come to him for advice.

"It's all good," Porthos drew him aside. "Like I already told Athos, here, Constance gave him the money."

"Constance is a fine woman, but hardly wealthy. Where would she get 30 livres?" Aramis wondered.

"Well, when I bumped into her in the market the other day, she asked my advice about selling a few bits and bobs for a fair price," Porthos beamed. "Funnily enough the amount she was looking to get was exactly 30 livres. He's just too shy to say so."

"Oh well that's alright then," Aramis looked genuinely relieved. "For a horrible moment there I was worried our Madame de la Chappelle might have taken an interest in him."

"Unlikely," Athos observed. "She has nothing to gain from it. The Cardinal would hardly take kindly to her supporting the Musketeers."

"Speakin' of supporting people," Porthos turned his glass around in his hand. "Aramis and I have somethin' to tell you."

"As his friends we feel it's only right that d'Artagnan gets this chance to earn his commission and we don't wish to stand in his way." Aramis said.

"We're still going to enter the contest," Porthos continued. "The whelp won't do his best if he doesn't have a bit of healthy competition, but we've already told Treville neither of us want to be considered as the Musketeer's champion."

"Are you quite sure?" Athos asked mildly. "You both went to a great deal of effort to raise the entrance fee."

"Yeah, about that," Porthos looked a little sheepish. "We felt bad for 'im, losing his farm and all. And we knew he wouldn't take the money if we just gave it to 'im."

"So, we thought if we added to the prize purse then he would be just that little bit better off when he won."

"That's very commendable, gentlemen," Athos raised his glass in a small toast. "I applaud your ingenuity."

"You already went to Treville and did exactly the same, didn't you?" Porthos realised.

* * *

After the contest the King had insisted that his personal physician be called to attend to Treville's shoulder. Then he had decided he should travel back to Paris in his own carriage. So, Athos had had to wait for his opportunity to speak with the Captain alone

"I have come to apologize," He said formally, as he stood in front of Treville's desk, remembering with shame their last conversation in this room. "I should not have said the things I did. I will accept any punishment you deem fitting."

Treville manfully tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his shoulder as he leant back in his chair to give his Lieutenant his full attention.

"One last moment of glory?" Treville challenged. Those particular words had cut deeply. Surely Athos knew him better than that?

"D'Artagnan told me that if he did not earn his commission shortly he would leave Paris. I let my feelings for him overwhelm my good sense. The idea of losing him from my life.." Athos owed Treville more than he could ever repay, so he steeled himself to bare his soul. "It would be like losing Thomas all over again."

Treville felt like all the breath had been sucked out of him at such an admission. Athos rarely expressed his feelings so openly, at least not in actual words. Treville hadn't been so lost in his own pain that he couldn't remember it was Athos who had stood protectively over his prone body in the arena, fighting off any Red Guard that dared to approach. Nor that it had been Athos' helping hand that set him back on his feet.

"You were not entirely mistaken," He allowed now. "D'Artagnan does have the making of a fine Musketeer." Treville stood up carefully and came around the desk to look the man he loved like a son in the eye. "Your loyalty does you credit Athos. But take care. It can also be your greatest weakness. Anne nearly destroyed you. I never want to see you like that again."

Athos pressed his lips together and nodded silently in acknowledgement.

"Are we interrupting something?" Aramis asked as he and Porthos hovered in the doorway. "It's just we would rather like to spirit Athos away to celebrate d'Artagnan's commission.

"Go, all of you," Treville instructed tolerantly, clapping Athos fondly on the shoulder. "And try to stay out of trouble.

* * *

"So, whilst the King enjoys our hard earned money we are again as poor as Church mice," Aramis sighed. "I suppose we could always resort to the Wren. The wine will be perfectly dreadful but it will be cheap."

"We ain't goin' to the Wren," Porthos objected. "I still haven't got over the last time I was there."

It was two days since d'Artagnan had earned his commission. The four of them had passed the time resting, training and looking forward to their first "official" mission together as Musketeers.

"I have wine." Athos offered.

D'Artagnan's breath caught in his throat as the others chimed in with happy agreement. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. He defiantly wasn't supposed to be present. He had expected they would all go to the Tavern as usual and then Athos would take himself off home, alone. But now he couldn't think of any reason to object as they all made their way to Athos' lodgings. "Hey, you got us chairs," Porthos, in the front was the first to enter.

"I can assure you I did not." Athos corrected, as he followed him in, only to stop dead as he realised his lone chair had indeed been joined by three new ones.

"And yet, here they are," Aramis swept off his hat and dropped it on a table, as he went to inspect the nearest one. "And very fine too."

The three chairs were each constructed from a different type of wood. The first was warm cherry burnished to a rich shine with two solid arms and elaborately ornate carving. The second was made of elm, with thin, elegant spindles decorated with numerous little flourishes. The third was solid oak, lovingly waxed, layer upon layer, to enhance its enduring strength. Each one had a perfect fleur de lys carved into the back.

"I .. um, just wanted to say "thank you" .. for everything." D'Artagnan spoke up, a little bashfully.

" _You_  made these? Where ever did you learn to do that?" Porthos' tone was full of admiration as he claimed the cherry wood version for his own, resting his elbows on the arms and stretching his feet out in front of him. "They're right comfy."

"There was always something on the farm that needed fixing. I picked up a few things."

"Where did you find the time?" Aramis put in, as he settled himself into the ash chair, his fingers brushing over the delicate carving. "Or the money?"

"I got the wood for a good price because I just needed enough to make one chair out of each type. Most people want a matching set so there are always bits left over. And Robert, the carpenter, was from Gascony, so when I told him my story he said I could use his tools and his workshop, as long as I kept out of his way and didn't break anything."

"And the time?" Aramis pressed.

"Here and there." D'Artaganan shrugged.

Even having been used to working long hours on the farm it had been quite a challenge to fit the work in in-between missions, training and all his other duties. It had meant early mornings and late nights, sacrificing sleep and leisure time but as he carefully carved and sanded he kept thinking of the debt he owed and the looks on his friend's faces and knew it would all be worth it.

Expect Athos looked like he had punched him.

"Athos," Aramis nudged him. "This is the part where you say "thank you, d'Artagnan for the beautiful chairs," He looked at the Gascon in total seriousness. "You'll have to forgive him he's never quite certain how to react to any expression of kindness."

"You have done so much for me," d'Artagnan made sure to catch Athos' eye. "I know you could probably purchase something much better. But you so rarely do anything pleasant for yourself. I thought it would be nice for you to be able to gather your friends around you in comfort."

"Athos, you gotta say  _something_ ," Porthos encouraged, kindly. "D'Artagnan worked hard on these and he's gonna think you don't like 'em."

Athos' fingers reached out to skim across the top of the oak chair, his expression unreadable, but he did not say a single word.

"Athos?" d'Artagnan felt his heart sink at the failure of his gesture. "You don't have to keep them if .."

"I do believe I said something about wine." Athos abruptly cut him off as he swiftly turned on his heel and disappeared in the direction of the pantry.

D'Artagnan stood in the middle of the room, clenching his fists as he desperately tried to hold back his tears. Had he really worked so long and so hard, on  _everything_ , for it to come to this?

"Go after him, you dolt." Porthos urged him.

Athos was standing in the small pantry, the wine apparently completely forgotten, as he stared sightlessly out of the tiny window, covered in mesh to keep the flies out.

"Athos?"

Suddenly, there was a blur of movement and d'Artagnan found himself being hugged within an inch of his life, his chin tucked against Athos' shoulder as the man cupped his head with one large hand.

"You gave me all the thanks I desired when you did not rise to Labarge's taunts but fought like a true Musketeer," Athos told him. "But it seems you are going to make a habit of exceeding all my expectations."

"I'll try." D'Artagnan smiled through his own tears.

"Well then," Athos pulled back, only to tousle his hair with such fond simplicity that d'Artagnan's heart all but stopped. "Let us make the most of a convivial evening for who knows when we will be called out again on the King's business."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cookies for anyone who could spot this episodes major plot hole! Next up Knight takes Queen.


	17. Knight Takes Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I always imagined that with Isabelle by my side, things would have been different,” Aramis felt his grief rise in his throat and heard his voice begin to falter. “She was the only woman I have ever allowed myself to love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, most of it is due to having to earn a living, some of it to the twisted ankle I gained whilst trying to earn a living, and then to the codine A and E gave me, which meant I couldn’t think straight never mind write anything, and a little bit to a new story idea featuring Comte!Athos which keeps derailing my thought process at most inconvenient moments. In compensation this one is very long so I hope you continue to enjoy.  
> Also, it was pointed out to me that I had got so carried away re “The Challenge” that I had said nothing about d’Art’s breakup with Constance so there is a little nod to that in this too.

“Where do _we_ camp?”

Once they had pitched the Queen’s tent and checked that her needs were met d’Artagnan found himself looking around the small clearing by the lake at Bourbon les eaux. Their duty was to be on hand to protect the Queen but there was also the question of propriety to consider, four soldiers could hardly eat, live and sleep cheek by jowl with the Queen and her ladies.   

“Up there,” Athos nodded up to a flat area at the top of the cliff face. “There are clear sightlines to the access at both sides of the lake and we can be at her Majesty’s side in an instant if there’s trouble.”

“From up there?” d’Artagnan frowned, looking in vain for any sign of a path. “And how exactly will we do that?”

“There’s always rope,” Aramis grinned tightly as d’Artagnan blanched at the idea of sliding down a rope from that height.

“Don’t listen to him,” Porthos counselled kindly. “There’s a path over this way.”

Despite a few treacherous tree roots, the path steadily wound its way up the cliff face ensuring that it was the work of moments to carry up their saddle bags and the few necessities they would need to camp out under the clear summer skies. Then d’Artagnan watched as Aramis settled down to clean his musket, Porthos pulled out a book and Athos sat back against a tree and tipped his hat over his eyes, looking for all the world as if he was going to take a nap.

“So, what do we do now?” d’Artagnan looked around him, feeling somewhat at a loss, and praying he was wrong about the answer.

“Hopefully nothing,” Aramis glanced up. “We’ll only be called upon if there’s trouble. The Queen will take the waters and spend the rest of the time relaxing with her ladies. They will attend upon her and a team from the Palace kitchens are already installed in a local manor house to deliver all meals, ours included.”

“So, we don’t even have to cook?” D’Artagnan’s tone sounded slightly hollow.

The others exchanged a swift glance. Ever since Constance had broken things off with him d’Artagnan had thrown himself into his training, trying to keep his mind busy and ensure his body was too tired to lay awake at night dwelling on his loss. The prospect of long hours ahead with absolutely nothing to do but imagine what might have been must seem like a kind of torture.  

“Of course, we will be continuing with your training.” Athos put in smoothly.

D’Artagnan made a show of looking around the rather narrow clearing and then over at the very steep drop into the lake. The water was quite deep here. The fall _probably_ wouldn’t kill him.

“That’s just an excuse to dump me in the lake, isn’t it?” He rolled his eyes for dramatic affect but secretly was delighted at the prospect of something to fill his time.

“S’important to be aware of your surroundings,” Porthos advised, setting aside his book and picking up his sword. “If you get distracted in the middle of a sword fight it could be the death of you,” Porthos cast a meaningful glance in the direction of their Lieutenant. “Ain’t that right Athos?”

“Except as you see, I am very much alive,” Athos glowered without any real heat at his friend. “And for the thousandth time I did not _fall_ off that cliff, I was pushed.”

“Someone pushed you off a cliff?” D’Artagnan’s eyes went very wide.

“A minor inconvenience,” Athos seemed ready to brush off the incident, until he met Porthos steady gaze and actually blushed slightly. “Once, I started breathing again, of course.”

“So,” Porthos spoke up before d’Artagnan could react to _that_ , favouring the Gascon with a bright grin. “Care to make a small wager on which one of us will be the first to take a little swim?”

“Please, It’s not like I’m a novice anymore,” d’Artagnan felt he had earned the right to boast a little. He tapped his pauldron proudly. “Fully-fledged musketeer right here.”

“Quite so,” Athos rose to his own feet with a gleam in his eyes that had Porthos grinning even more broadly and d’Artagnan swallowing hard as the musketeer cast aside his hat and picked up his sword. “So, two against one won’t be a problem for you then?”

“Both of you?” d’Artagnan looked from one to the other, he needed to be quite sure he had heard right. “Together?”

“We won’t engage at the same time,” Athos assured him. “But yes. Your opponents may not always be so chivalrous as to fight one-on-one.”

“I know,” D’Artagnan nodded respectfully he had already seen Athos take on four men at once when they had been ambushed on the road. Determined to prove himself he fell into a ‘ready’ stance and then paused as he thought of his shiny new pauldron, and the nicks, slices and outright gouges that decorated his friends’ shoulders. “Just .. you will mind the uniform, yeah?”

* * *

Holed up in the Convent Aramis found that being repeatedly shot at was doing a great deal to focus his attention and banish the tumult of feelings which had been stirred up at discovering Sister Helene was actually his long lost Isabelle to the back of his mind. Athos was counting on his skill to help protect the Queen and keep the mercenaries at bay and he was not about to disappoint him.

“I reassured the Queen that this was a relatively quiet day for us.” Aramis observed, prudently stepping back as more musket shot pierced the convent walls. “I may have to revise that assessment.”

“I thought you’d be pleased,” In the adjacent room Athos risked a glance out of the window, swiftly springing back as a shot landed so close that little puffs of dry plaster drifted into the room. “At the lake side you craved more excitement.”

“Is that why you insisted on making yourself a target, riding out to parly with our mercenary friend?” Aramis chided. “Because a musket ball through your forehead is not exactly the kind of excitement I was hoping for.”

“You had us in your sights,” Athos knew he had been a little rash but hoped that his absolute confidence in Aramis’ abilities would prove sufficient to avoid a scolding. “And I have never known you to miss.”

“That is true,” Aramis acknowledged modestly. “So, all we need to do now is buy Porthos and d’Artagnan enough time to get to Paris and return with reinforcements. How hard can that be?”

“The concept of ‘famous last words’ truly escapes you, doesn’t it?” Athos stepped back slightly from the other window to meet his gaze.

Most men would have registered the sarcasm and entirely failed to notice faint lines of worry around Athos’ eyes, but Aramis knew every nuance of that face, had learnt to read in the quirk of a brow, the twitch of a lip, or the tilt of a chin, a thousand different emotions.

“You’re not worried that his men will cause Porthos and d’Artagnan any trouble?” Aramis frowned. “Porthos is like a one man army and d’Artagnan is a born fighter.”

“You’re right, of course.” Athos answered, a little too swiftly.

Aramis narrowed his eyes, taking another shot as he pondered the possible reasons for Athos’ concern. Earlier Porthos had wanted to make a stand against much greater numbers. He would doubtless turn and fight as soon as the two of them reached a suitable distance. Their opponent here was a trained solider, with a military man’s skills and discipline, and his men would doubtless be well drilled in both sword and musket.

_Ah_

D’Artagnan might have the spirit of a musketeer but he still needed to grow in experience and skills His natural talent with a blade could only carry him so far. Under Aramis’ tuition his proficiently with a musket was swiftly improving but the boy still had a tendency to fumble when under pressure.

“Athos,” Aramis ducked slightly, as another shot took out a piece of the wall right over his head. He waited for a lull so he could be sure to look his friend in the eye. Athos’ steady leadership was something they all relied on.  But that did not mean their Lieutenant did not occasionally feel the weight of command. “We could not out run them forever and there were too many of them for us to risk the Queen by making a stand. Whatever happens, you made the right decision.”

He waited until Athos nodded fractionally, sincere this time in his acceptance of Aramis’ words. Bolstered by his success in easing his friend’s concern Aramis managed a rakish grin.

“And if God wills I should go to my rest today then I must say you have done me a particular service. For I always hoped to die surrounded by beautiful woman, praising my noble deeds.”

* * *

An hour or so passed and the sudden lull in the fighting was not remotely reassuring Aramis decided. The ominous quiet made all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Leaning against the window casement his eyes scanned the ground outside for any sign of movement. When he registered footsteps approaching from behind he was relieved to recognise Athos’ measured tread.

“They’ve withdrawn into the woods and I could see smoke from a cooking fire,” Athos informed him. It was another telling sign their opponent was not merely a paid assassin, out to secure a swift victory, but a well- trained soldier. Men fought better and for longer on full stomachs. “I thought we best follow his example.”

Aramis turned around as Athos set down the tray he was carrying. He ignored the bowl of what looked to be rabbit stew in favour of making a show of picking up one of the two mugs and offering Athos a little toast before taking a drink. Perhaps if his hands were busy Athos would not notice that he had no stomach for food just now. For his part Athos moved to rest one shoulder against the wall, a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other, looking the very picture of repose, as if they had not just spent the morning fighting for their lives. But his eyes were dark with concern as he regarded Aramis.

“You should eat something.”

The little furrow in Athos’ forehead told Aramis that he had neither fallen for his small subterfuge nor forgotten how uncharacteristically discomforted Aramis had been earlier. The soldier in him felt guilty for making his Lieutenant worry about his welfare when he already had the life of the Queen, the safety of the nuns and his concern about young d’Artagnan weighing on his shoulders. But he also knew his friend would not be satisfied with anything less than the truth. 

“Imagine my surprise to find that Sister Helene and I have a previous acquaintance,” He took a swallow of the weak beer to steady himself. “I searched for her for months, pleaded with her family to tell me where she was, and now suddenly all these years later, here she is.”

A less perceptive man, who knew Aramis’ reputation as a libertine, might have made some ribald jest at the idea of Aramis consorting with nuns. Athos took note of Aramis’ strained expression, the sheen of moisture in his eyes and the way he avoided looking directly at him as he spoke and straightened up.

“She is your Isabelle, the girl you were to marry,” He realised, not remotely surprised that Aramis’ lost love would be a woman of such spirit and strength of character.

“The very same,” Aramis pinched his nose and sniffed audibly, struggling to keep his emotions under control, as the memories of that youthful heartbreak and his long, desperate, search to find her, flooded back. “My sincerest apologies, this is hardly the time for this.”

“As you only very recently reminded me, people are always trying to kill us, therefore it is as good a time as any,” Athos brushed off that concern. Then he hesitated slightly, as if unsure how to broach the topic, before simply asking. “How are you?”

“It has been so long since I have seen her,” Aramis was fairly sure it should not still hurt this much. “At first, I did not even recognise her.”

“That is understandable. You were hardly expecting to find her here. She at least had the advantage of hearing me address you,” Athos excused him. “Does she know that you have kept her in your heart all these years?”

“We were interrupted,” Aramis gave him a brittle smile. “An act of God you might say.”

* * *

The failure of their incursion into the cellar and the loss of two more of the mercenaries heralded another lull in the fighting as they pulled back to regroup. Stepping quietly into the small chapel Athos was unsurprised to find Aramis already there, on his knees with his head bowed and his rosary clutched in a white knuckle grip.  With supreme tact the nun keeping vigil over Sister Helene’s body gave him a swift nod of acknowledgement before leaving the two Musketeers alone. As Athos approached his pew Aramis looked up, his features looking pale and drawn.

“Athos, my apologies,” He rubbed a tired hand over his face and made as if to rise, clearly fearing he was neglecting his duty. “What do you need?”

“Nothing at all,” Athos gently halted his rise with a firm hand on his shoulder. “Things are quiet, for the moment, the nuns are resting, the Mother Superior is with the Queen. I merely came to offer my condolences.”

Before Aramis could protest any further Athos crossed himself and knelt down beside him to say a brief, but sincere, prayer for Isabelle’s immortal soul. He knew Aramis would take it as the gesture of respect he intended, since he no longer cared to worship on his own behalf. As he sat back into the pew he was gratified when Aramis also rose from his knees so they might sit together for a moment. At once Athos felt the familiar burden of guilt pressing down on him as he opened his mouth to speak.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Aramis’ caught his hand and squeezed firmly before Athos could voice his regret. “Do _not_ blame yourself for any of this, my friend. It was the Queen’s decision to take the waters. It was our mercenary friend’s choice to pursue her and it was God’s will that all our paths should cross in this way. No man living could have imagined such an unlikely scenario as that I would find Isabelle here only to hasten her death.”

“Nonetheless,” Athos would not be so easily absolved, as he turned his hand over to thread his fingers through Aramis’. “I am deeply sorry that you should find her only to lose her again so swiftly.”

“She was already lost to me,” Aramis tipped his head back to look at the ceiling, not able to look at Athos as he confessed his pain, but still wanting him to understand. “All these years I imagined that no other woman could make me as happy as she. Only to discover she never truly considered me husband material. It was her choice not to proceed with our wedding. Apparently she believed a life in the countryside with children at our feet would have robbed me of the excitement and adventure I crave.”

“Two days out of Paris and you were willing to shoot anything that moved.” Athos reminded gently, brushing his thumb firmly across Aramis’ knuckles to take any sting out of his words.

“I always imagined that with Isabelle by my side, things would have been different,” Aramis felt his grief rise in his throat and heard his voice begin to falter. “She was the only woman I have ever allowed myself to love.” 

At once, the familiar weight of Athos’ arm was wrapped around his shoulders and a gentle tug was all it took for him to bury his face in Athos’ neck and weep for what might have been. Resting his chin on Aramis’ unruly curls Athos felt his brother’s pain as sharply as if it were his own. He had no doubt that Isabelle’s actions had been well meaning, but Aramis had deserved an explanation, a chance to know her mind and bid her adieu, so he could move on with his life. Not be left all these years chasing some fantasy of a perfect little family which had ruined him for any chance at true happiness.

When the storm of tears finally abated Athos merely produced his large linen handkerchief so Aramis could wipe his face and blow his nose. Then he waited patiently as his brother gradually slowed his ragged breathing and took the time he needed to return to himself, before carefully extricating himself from Athos’ embrace with a deeply grateful look and settling himself back in the pew.

“Isabelle suggested part of me was relieved when the baby was lost and I did not have to marry. That it was never anything more than a foolish dream. The idea of domesticity rather than the reality,” He confessed, feeling utterly spent. “And clearly God did not judge me fit be a father or our child would have survived.”

Instantly he could have bitten out his own tongue as he felt Athos flinch as if he had been struck. Wrapped up in his own grief he had temporarily forgotten that Athos also knew what it was to have his dreams of a happy family utterly shattered.

“ _Athos_ ...” He began, feeling sick with remorse. “My brother, I did not mean to imply ..”

“No, no, in my case, I have no doubt you are absolutely right,” Athos cut him off his voice quiet and sincere that Aramis died a little inside to hear it. “When Anne revealed she was with child Thomas was beside himself with joy. He kept talking about how he would play with them, spoil them with sweetmeats, take them down to the river and teach them to swim in the summer and skate on the ice in the winter.”

Aramis easily heard his friend’s unvoiced fears. That he would have been relegated to teaching his offspring about duty and propriety. His appearance a reason for the joy to dim in his child’s face as the youngster was pulled from their simple pleasures to the stuffy schoolroom. His presence not a cue for love and laughter but always a reminder of the weight of responsibility the child would be expected to bear.

He thought of the man who had encouraged Porthos love of learning without denting his pride, who had taught d’Artagnan to fight with his head rather than his heart without breaking the lad’s spirit, who had made him a better man and a finer soldier simply by their enduring acquaintance and even knowing that this was something which they _never_ spoke of Aramis found he could _not_ keep silent.

“Athos, you are _not_ your father.”

“How did your Isabelle come to be a nun?” Athos’ only response to his words was to swiftly change the subject. “Did her family have a hand in it?”

Aramis sighed softly at the evasion but he was not surprised. It was hardly the first time. _One day,_ he vowed silently _One day we_ will _speak of it and you will understand that you were not the one at fault._

“Isabelle assured me it was her decision, that she was happy in her vocation,” Aramis made a small face. “It would seem she chose a union with God over marriage to me.”

“As rival suitors go that is _quite_ the competition.” Athos observed dryly.

In spite of himself Aramis gave a watery laugh. He felt truly blessed to have such a friend. Athos always had a way of making even the most dreadful of situations seem that bit easier to bear.

* * *

“So, you’re tellin’ me that you and Aramis protected the Queen with just a handful of musket balls, some bottles of grape and honey brandy, the odd beehive and a group of feisty nuns?” Porthos was torn between great amusement and sheer horror at hearing the tale of his friends’ besiegement. “And I thought the strength we could muster was terrifying enough.”

Athos allowed a small smile to cross his face as he packed his saddlebags. He had truly thought they might die today and although the world would have honoured his sacrifice in dying in defence of the Queen he knew he would have failed in his duty to protect her. Worse, he glanced up, his eyes irresistibly drawn to the adjacent stand of trees where Aramis was helping d’Artagnan tend to the horses, he might have lost another brother because he was unable to protect him.

And _God help him_ he still could.

“To hear Aramis tell it,” Porthos was still talking. “She was quite the force the reckoned with your Mother Superior.”

“She was hardly ‘mine’.” Athos rolled his eyes at the description. “And given that it was her Covent and home that she was defending her fervour was understandable.”

“And yet she put her faith in you to save it,” Porthos pointed out simply. Athos had a manner about him which inspired others to follow his lead but the man was touchingly unaware of the depth of loyalty he engendered. “Although, what were you thinking, riding out to meet Gallagher like that? You could have been killed!”

Athos closed his eyes briefly. Of course, Aramis _would_ have to go and mention that. He decided to simply ignore the question in favour of attempting to discover why d’Artagnan was suddenly so reluctant to meet his gaze.

“Did you meet with any trouble on the road?”

“Gallagher sent some of his men after us. We polished ‘em off alright but the whelp took his own sweet time on the reload,” Porthos admitted. “He still made the shot but for a minute there it was touch and go. At first he didn’t want me to tell you because he was ashamed of himself. Then he worried that weren’t the honourable thing to do. Now he’s just miserable that you’ll be disappointed in him. I already told him a few more lessons will smooth things out right enough.”

“It hardly helps that he uses Aramis as his yard stick,” Athos sighed. Most new recruits would be delighted to be as capable with a pistol as d’Artagnan was at this stage. “I’ll speak with him.”

“So, now that’s settled,” Porthos gave him a sidelong glance. “You want to tell me what’s going on with you and Aramis? He’s acting like he’s messed something up royally and thinks he has to earn back your good opinion. I asked him about it but he said it was up to you what to tell me.”

“You would be safer if you don’t know.” Athos told him seriously.

“Like anyone’s ever gonna believe that you two are up to your necks in something and I _didn’t_ know anything about it,” Porthos scoffed. “If I’m gonna hang then I should at least know what for.”

“Messed up royally is a rather apt description.” Athos allowed.

“He didn’t?” Porthos’ eyes went wide as he swiftly made the connection. Then he remembered Aramis’ behaviour when the Queen presented him with her crucifix and scowled fiercely. “Of course, he bloody did, the idiot!”

“He was full of grief and not wholly responsible for his actions,” Athos excused his friend. After all who was _he_ to judge Aramis for how he had dealt with his grief when he himself had made such poor choices? Also, although it was treason to say it, the Queen had not exactly discouraged his advances. “She empathised with his lost and sought to comfort him.”   

“And you didn’t stop him?” Porthos protested.

“Don’t you think I would have if I could!” Athos was roused to uncharacteristic anger by the accusation, haunted by thoughts of the other brother he could not save, although, his fury rapidly fled in the face of his guilt. He tried and failed to keep his voice steady. “I didn’t know until it was too late for my anger to do anything but drive him away. It seems I am forever fated to fail to keep those I love from self-destruction.”

“Athos, no,” Aramis was suddenly beside him, attracted by their raised voices, his expression stricken at what he had just overheard, the very idea that he had made Athos feel that way cutting deeper than any blade. “You could not have been a better comfort to me. The fault was entirely mine alone. A temporary loss of reason, brought on by our mutual grief at the loss of our unborn children.”

“No, Aramis,” Athos’ said quietly, knowingly, his eyes dark with sympathy. “It was far more than that.”

Aramis blinked, his expression suddenly seeming younger and far more vulnerable, stripped of all its preening and pretence as the sincerity in Athos’ words spoke to the core of their friendship. Isabelle’s death might have been the catalyst for his liaison with the Queen, but Aramis’ feelings for Anne of Austria had been growing these many months. What he felt for her was love.

“You know me too well, brother,” Aramis rebuked in a slightly strangled tone. “You are supposed to believe that I care for nothing but the thrill of the chase and the joy of a successful conquest. Not that I could ever be loyal and steadfast in matters of the heart.”

“You’ve always been the truest and most trusting of us all,” Porthos pointed out calmly. His childhood in the court of miracles had made him naturally suspicious. Athos had been so badly betrayed that he was reluctant to open his heart to anyone. Even young d’Artagnan was too quick to see insult and seek to defend his honour. “And you have always been entirely loyal and steadfast with us.”

“I have risked both Athos’ life and the Queen’s in a moment of weakness,” Aramis reminded him. “Where is the loyalty in that?”

“In the fact that you will now find the strength not to endanger any of us further, despite the cost to yourself,” Athos advised solemnly. He knew that it would be a kind of torture for Aramis to see the Queen and not give free reign to his feelings but it was the only way. “The Nuns saw nothing. The Queen will say nothing and we three will take this secret to the grave.”

“What about d’Artagnan?” Aramis worried.

“He’s still a lad from Gascony at heart,” Porthos shrugged. It was unlikely that the boy would ever suspect that Aramis could be so brazen as to lie with the Queen. “And he’s got a bright future ahead of him. Let’s not burden him with this unless we must.”

* * *

In the bright afternoon sunlight Athos watched with a strange feeling of detachment as Aramis showed Treville the almost empty coin box from Gallagher’s saddle bag. He supposed he should be surprised, but in truth some part of him had been expecting something like this. Even so, he had to swallow hard before he could be absolutely certain his voice would be steady enough not betray him.

“That flower is the signature of a woman who works for the Cardinal.” He managed.

“ _What_?” Treville looked at his Lieutenant in astonishment. Athos was not a man prone to flights of fancy. He would not claim such a thing without due cause. But still. “Are you trying to say that some woman hired Gallagher to kill the Queen on the orders of the Cardinal?”

“Not just any woman.” Porthos intoned darkly.

“Gallagher knew he was about to stand before his God,” Aramis spoke up. “Given that there is scarcely enough money here to repair a hen house, perhaps encouraging us to search his saddle bags was his way of un-masking the woman who hired him without compromising his principles.”

“And you gentlemen know this woman?” Treville pressed.

“It is the token of a woman called Milady de Winter,” d’Artagnan suddenly volunteered, causing all four of the others to look at him in varying degrees of shock and surprise. He shrugged blithely. “I met her on my way to Paris. She has taken something of an interest in me.”

“We’ll discuss this on our return to the Garrison. For now our priority is to get the Queen safely back to Paris,” Treville decided.  “Make sure the horses are ready, we’ll leave as soon as Her Majesty is sufficiently refreshed to make the journey.”

“What kind of _interest_?” Athos demanded abruptly as soon as Treville had retreated out of earshot.

“Nothing important,” D’Artagnan shrugged, apparently genuinely unconcerned. “She calls herself my ‘Guardian Angel’. At first I thought she was trying to use her charms to convince me to throw my lot in with the Cardinal, but then when we were after Vadim she killed two Red Guards to save my life and she was also the Patroness who paid for me to enter the Contest to be the Musketeer’s champion.”

“Neither of them sounds like actions his Eminence would approve of.” Porthos frowned.

D’Artagnan gave a small smile as he leaned in towards Porthos to speak in a conspiratorial whisper, still loud enough to be heard by the others as if it were a fine joke.  

“What can I say, I think she likes me.”

“Are you _quite_ mad?” Athos demanded sharply, even as his voice rose. “Do you not realise how dangerous this woman is?”

“Don’t worry,” Words mean to be soothing set Athos’ blood pounding in his ears as d’Artagnan brushed aside his concern with a cocky smile and spoke with the absolute confidence of youth. “I can handle her.”

Athos felt like he had been taken back in time. He could see Thomas’ face wearing the exact same unshakeable belief that Anne was so beautiful and so charming that she could surely not be capable of the evil all the rumours had hinted at. His naivety had cost Thomas his life and now young d’Artagnan was walking into the exact same trap. It was too much for him to bear.

With a low growl Athos tore off his glove. On his left Aramis stiffened and to his right Porthos drew in a sharp hiss of breath between his teeth as Athos stepped forward both of them clearly thinking he was about to issue a challenge.

“You foolish boy!”

The sharp sound reverberated through the quiet of the countryside as Athos struck d’Artagnan across the face. The open handed blow, flesh to flesh, was not sufficient to cause any real injury but it was delivered with enough force that that d’Artagnan stumbled back, his eyes widening in shock and surprise, as he put a hand up to rub at skin swiftly turning a dark, painful, red.

“That woman is my _wife_ and you will have _nothing_ more to do with her or you will answer to _me_.”

Athos completely lost his temper as he raged at him, utterly terrified at the very thought of Anne harming this boy whom he had allowed himself to love as fiercely as he had ever loved Thomas. He did not wait to see the colour drain from his youngest brother’s face, nor to acknowledge the anguished look the passed between Aramis and Porthos at his obvious fury. Opening and closing his hand against the burning sting in his palm he simply turned on his heel and fled.

“I’ll go after ‘im.” Porthos was already moving.

When d’Artagnan, one hand still pressed to the side of his face made as if to follow, he found himself stopped by Aramis’ hand planted squarely in the centre of his chest.

“Not you. You have some explaining to do.”

For his part Porthos followed the tracks Athos had left in the grass, noting with dismay how his footsteps became increasingly more irregular and wide spaced as if the man was staggering. Even so, the last thing he expected to find was Athos on his knees, behind the convent’s grain store, pale and violently shaking, as he expelled the meagre contents of his stomach.

“Easy,” Porthos made his presence known, before he hunkered down on one knee and pressed a warm hand between Athos shoulder blades. “Easy now, I’ve got you. You just get it all out, eh?”

Porthos was kindness itself, holding Athos up as he finished retching, then guiding him to sit back in the soft summer grass, whilst keeping a comforting arm around his shaking shoulders. Using his other hand he pulled out one of the lace trimmed handkerchiefs Alice had given him and used it to wipe off Athos’ face and mouth as tenderly as any nursemaid. Then he reached deep into his jacket for the flask that Athos had bought for him along with a bottle of the best brandy Paris could supply after Bonnaire.

_The flask was made from leather which had been carefully stained a deep, glossy, black. The rich colour contrasted beautifully with the soft sheen from the cap, neck and base which were made from highly polished silver. On the front was an embossed fleur-de-lys and on the back the Musketeers motto was etched in a flowing script._

_“It’s a mite early for my birthday,” Porthos had initially protested the obvious expense._

_“I know,” Athos had looked anywhere but at him. “I merely thought that if you were injured in future it would be a means to ease your discomfort rather than having to rely on a stranger.”_

_“Athos, I thought we got this settled,” Porthos gave his friend a stern look. He had made it clear he thought it had taken true courage for Athos to return to le Fere for his sake. “I don’t blame you for Bonnaire being a slave trader or anything else, alright?”_

_“Perhaps I blame myself,” Athos had given a mirthless smile, his eyes still full of remorse as he offered his gift again. “Indulge me?”_

_“Alright,” Porthos allowed, not wishing to add to his friend’s pain he reached out to accept silver flask with a nod of gratitude. “But not because I think you’ve got anything to make up for, only because there’s times we could all use a spot of brandy and I’ll gladly share.”_

Now Athos coughed slightly as Porthos held the flask of strong spirit to his lips, but the colour gradually returned to his cheeks as his brother rubbed comforting circles on his back.

“How could I have been so blind?” Athos found enough voice to berate himself. “She already took one brother from me, why would I not think that she might try to steal another? Yet all these months since I knew she was living and I never once considered she might attempt such an atrocity.”

“You had no way of knowing she had got her hooks in the lad,” Porthos decided now was _not_ the time to tell Athos that he and Aramis had their own suspicions. It wasn’t as if those had been much more than wild speculation.

“I know how her mind works,” Athos was determined to punish himself. “The boy’s hot blooded character and his connection to me made him easy prey.”

“Athos,” Porthos hated that this fine man was so quick to shoulder the responsibility for others shortcomings. “Maybe, d’Artagnan didn’t know exactly who he was beholden to, but it was his choice to keep his dealings with her a secret from us. You can’t blame yourself for that.”

“I need to speak with him,” Visibly summoning his strength Athos rose to his feet and swayed only slightly before setting his jaw with a look of determination. “She will have turned his head with her honeyed words and now he will be blaming himself for being taken in by her.”

“Alright, but take it slow,” Porthos rose to his feet but made sure to stay within arms reach. “You ain’t going to do anyone any good if you pitch over in the dirt and do yourself a mischief.”

Athos tried to glare at him for that, but he was feeling too grateful for Porthos’ support to do a good job of it. So, he settled for touching his arm lightly in thanks. Porthos’ answering smile and the soft pat in his back showed that he understood. 

Together they made their way back to the small stand of trees where the horses were tethered. Athos was still preoccupied with his own thoughts but as they approached Porthos felt his stomach tighten with concern.

“Something’s up, d’Artagnan’s horse is gone.”

“What?”

Athos’ gaze immediately sharpened, his keen eyes swivelling in the direction of their mounts and instantly realising that Porthos was not mistaken. Feeling a wave of panic he looked around but could see no sign of the Gascon, although Aramis was still standing where they had left him by the horses. 

“Perhaps Treville sent him back to Paris,” Porthos suggested, as they headed in that direction, although he didn’t sound like he believed that, although he added with more confidence. “Aramis’ll know something.”

As they approached Athos’ felt his concern build as Aramis swiftly averted his gaze and ran his hands through his hair in a clear sigh of anxiety but before he could ask Treville came striding across the grass from the convent with a grim expression on his face and something that looked heart stoppingly like d’Artagnan’s pauldron gripped in his hands.

“D’Artagnan has resigned his commission with immediate effect,” Treville spoke as soon as he reached them. “He would give me no explanation. I don’t suppose you gents can tell me what on earth is going on?”

All eyes immediately turned to Aramis, since he had been the last one in the Gascon’s company. Under their collective gaze the usually self-assured man looked even more awkward.

“Um, I may have said some things.”


	18. Interlude (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I should not have hit him," Athos demurred quietly. "That was unforgivable."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work and life has again conspired to unintentionally delay this. The good news is, even if I don’t have time to write, I can’t stop thinking about writing so hopefully the finished product is better for all my mulling. And again – long. Also, I am on holiday next week so the next update should be quicker!

Treville’s eyes narrowed dangerously at Aramis’ words. He did not stand for dissension between the ranks and he could only think of one reason that men who had grown as close as Aramis and d’Artagnan would disagree so fiercely that the Gascon would surrender the Pauldron that he had worked so hard for and so recently risked his life against LaBarge to achieve. He fixed the figure in front of him with a withering look.

“God help me Aramis, if this is over a woman.”

Aramis’ head came up sharply at that, his eyes widening in shock at the implication that he and d’Artagnan were engaged in some kind of ménage a trois. A deeply wounded look briefly flashed across his features before his expression hardened into something darker and far brittle as his chin came up defiantly. Athos swiftly stepped in front of him, physically shielding him from Treville’s ire, as he deliberately drew the Captain’s anger onto himself, before Aramis could say something they would all regret.

“Aramis bears no responsibility for what occurred. It was my actions which drove the boy away. I lost my temper and I struck him.”

“ _You_ hit him?”

Aramis temporarily forgotten, Treville regarded his Lieutenant with blank astonishment. He could hardly have missed the prominent imprint of four splayed fingers on d’Artagnan’s face, but the boy had respectfully declined to answer when questioned about it. The Captain would have bet money on it being Aramis. The man was well known for being ruled by his passions, or failing that, he might have thought it Porthos. Growing up in the Court of Miracles meant he tended towards blunt words and direct action when riled. But such an action was wholly out of character for Athos.

“D’Artagnan weren’t without fault,” Porthos spoke up, the frown furrowing his brow, clearly showing his dismay at the prospect of Athos shouldering all the blame. “Far too cocky for his own good sometimes that one.”

Treville felt his temper rising. The plot to kill the Queen was a serious threat to the security of France. If the Cardinal truly did have a hand in it he needed these men at their best, not fighting like unruly children in the schoolyard. His own worry at the wider ramifications of d’Artagnan’s decision to resign his commission, both for the regiment as a whole and for Athos personally, did nothing to improve his mood, since Richelieu would doubtless find some way to capitalise on the King’s dismay at the loss of his newest favourite.

“I allow you and your men a great deal of leeway, Athos, far more than I should if this mess is any indication,” He stepped right up into his Lieutenant’s face to make sure his displeasure was clearly known, even as his voice rose. “You told me d’Artagnan could be the greatest of us all. So, you better have a damned good reason for what you did. Because I have no idea how I am going to explain away the loss of a Musketeer he has only just commissioned to the King!”

It was rare for Athos to look visibly discomforted. Whilst he often felt things deeply he was famed within the regiment for his ability to maintain his composure in the worst of situations. Many a raw recruit had taken courage during desperate times because of Athos’ steady leadership. So, Treville felt a surge of satisfaction to see the dark colour which swept up Athos' neck and across his face until even the tips of his ears turned red with mortification. _Good. He damned well should be embarrassed._

"Captain, if I may?"

Aramis spoke up with a cool politeness that Treville had long since learnt he ignored to his cost. Athos had his sense of duty and his breeding to hold him in check. Porthos had his natural humility and, due to his superior strength, a fear of hurting someone unduly if he let his temper get the better of him. Aramis had his religion, but with that came a strong sense of justice. Treville had often thought Aramis the most dangerous of the three men, especially when it came to defending his brothers.

"Athos was sorely provoked and he reacted with honour. A lessor man would not have shown such restraint,” Aramis' level tone did not contain a hint of censure, but Treville's conscience heard the words as a reproach nonetheless. “He acted solely out of concern for d'Artagnan's welfare as a good commanding officer should."

"What about you?" Treville countered, never one to back down from a challenge. "What _exactly_ is your part in all this?"

"I spoke in anger, I will, of course, apologise for that,” Aramis met his gaze steadily, without a trace of regret in his voice or stance. “But I said nothing which did not bear saying. When they were being chased by Ghallager’s men d'Artagnan’s over confidence in his own abilities almost cost Porthos his life when he fumbled his reload.”

“Is that true?” Treville looked at Porthos. If that was the root of the matter, then it put things in an entirely different light.

“He still made the shot,” Porthos looked uncomfortable. “But, it’s right enough that it was by the skin of his teeth.”

“I see,” Treville sucked in a breath and sought to regain some composure.  It seemed he had been a little hasty in his judgement. He could hardly blame these men for not taking kindly to seeing one of their own put in needless peril. “Clearly some sort of reprimand was required.”   

"I should not have hit him," Athos demurred quietly. "That was unforgivable."

"Oi," Porthos spoke with gruff concern. "None of that now, you had the lad's best interests at heart."

"Did I?" Athos looked utterly bleak. "I struck him in anger. That makes me no better than my father.”

The silence that descended at those words was like a tangible thing. The look that passed between Aramis and Porthos told Treville that they knew enough to be uncomfortable at those words. But the helplessness of their expressions confirmed his long held suspicions that Athos had hitherto been less than forthcoming on this matter, even with his closet friends.

For his part Treville felt like he had been doused with iced water. He realised he had just behaved exactly like Athos. Both had struck out at someone they loved like a son due to worry and concern. The fact that he had wounded with words rather than blows made no difference. Looking at Athos his eyes instinctively sought out the thin scar marring his right cheek. On his habitually pale skin it was normally all but invisible but now, the ragged white line stood out prominently against his flushed complexion like a physical rebuke.

“Son, you are _nothing_ like that man.”

* * *

_The memory was as fresh as if it were merely yesterday. Of his all his duties in the King’s service Treville most detested the long hours on parade at the Palace, suffering from the flies and the heat and the crushing boredom, as the best blood in France disported itself at its long and very tedious leisure. As the day’s blistering heat finally began to cool Treville was at last relieved of his post. He decided to take a shortcut back to the barracks through one of the cloistered walkways bordering the gardens. Entering the relative coolness of their shade he gave a sigh of relief and his fingers, of their own accord, found the buttons of his uniform, letting it flop open. It was strictly against protocol to do so within the precincts of the Palace. But it wasn’t as if there was anyone around to see._

_The sudden, angry, voice had his hands swiftly reaching to make himself presentable, before he realised it wasn’t shouting at him._

_As he turned the corner Treville stopped sharply at the sight of a man in the attire of a high born noble railing at a youth in front of a small group of onlookers. Treville was shocked at the vitriol of the man’s words.  Granted a noble had the right to treat his servants however he saw fit and, given that the lad’s hair was wet and his very fine livery soiled with muck and weeds, the noble clearly had grounds for thinking the boy had been larking about in the fountains when he should have been seeing to his duties. But he looked to be no more than fourteen or fifteen and to Treville’s mind it did a child's spirit no good to be spoken to in such demeaning terms, especially, in front of others._

_"Not always a picnic being nobility, eh?" Gerard, the sergeant at arms, murmured as he came up beside him. "Poor little bugger. It's not like he even did anything wrong.”_

_“Oh?” Treville frowned. A well-deserved scolding was one thing, even if this one did seem overly harsh, but to speak to a boy in such terms, without first determining his guilt or innocence, was not the kind of conduct he expected of a gentleman. “Who is that, anyway?”_

_"That is Oliver d’Athos, Comte de la Fere," Gerard scowled, making his dislike of the man plain. “Seems like one of one the nursemaids lost sight of their charge and the little girl ended up face first in the fountain. Would have drowned too if it weren’t for the quick thinking of his Lordship’s son and heir there fishing her out.”_

_“That boy is his son?” Treville exclaimed in disbelief, so loudly that one or two heads turned his way. Thankfully de la Fere was seemingly too caught up in his tirade to notice. Swiftly lowering his voice Treville hissed urgently. “Has no one thought to tell the Comte that the boy acted with honour?”_

_“Does his lordship look like he’s in a listening mood?” Gerard pointed out. “It would probably only make things worse.”_

_Through all of this, the boy had stood silently, a picture of dutiful obedience, his eyes fixed on the floor as his father roundly berated him. Not once was he given the chance to explain himself or even to seek forgiveness. Nor did he attempt to do so. Treville found his heart aching for the lad, also named Oliver it seemed, as his father was roused to even greater fury and ever more damming words. Treville watched as the Comte plucked a piece of weed out of his son’s unruly curls, cast it aside in fury and then curled his hand into a fist, using it to strike his son across the side of his face, hard enough to knock him off his feet and send him sprawling._

_Without even thinking Treville surged forward, only to find himself hauled back by a grip on his arm hard enough to cause bruises, so that he was left struggling futilely in Gerard's grasp as he watched the Comte impart a last few words of scorn before turning on his heel and striding off down the corridor with his hangers on in tow._

_"Calm yourself!” Gerard gave him a little shake, waiting until Treville stilled, before letting go. “It ain’t your place to interfere. The Comte will have you whipped if he catches you meddling in his private affairs. Best just get yourself back to the barracks. Yeah?”_

_Treville pressed his lips together and nodded sharply in acknowledgement of the truth of those words. Satisfied Gerard gave him an understanding clap on the back and took his leave. Yet Treville found himself lingering, reluctant to simply leave the boy to his own devices.  He watched with no small degree of admiration as Oliver bravely pulled himself up onto his hands and knee, shook his head as if to clear it, and then slowly clamboured to his feet._

_“Good lad.” Treville murmured, feeling oddly proud._

_Perhaps the boy would be alright after all. He was certainly not lacking in courage. Treville was about to back quietly away, in order to avoid causing the young Vicomte any further embarrassment, when he noticed him swaying alarmingly. Without a second thought Treville swiftly closed the distance between them, taking Oliver’s elbow in a firm grip. At his touch the boy’s head swivelled towards him, his eyes wide and blue in his shockingly pale face._

_“Easy,” Treville soothed, feeling a little ashamed of himself to have startled the boy, who had obviously believed himself to be utterly alone. Part of him was furious that a child could feel so abandoned when he was so obviously hurting. Although, his priority was the trickle of bright crimson staining boy’s lace collar, the all too obvious cause of his present infirmity. “I’m one of the King’s soldiers. I just want to offer my assistance. Can you make it to the fountain?”_

_Oliver turned his head, measuring the distance out into the gardens with his eyes. Although Treville had not thought it possible, he went even paler as he took in the distance. But he set his jaw and nodded fractionally in asset. Realising that he felt weaker than he was willing to confess Treville merely wrapped his other arm gently around the youth’s waist, bearing most of his weight until he could settle the Vicomte on the broad edge of the fountain. Around them the Palace servants were busy clearing away the remains of the day’s banquet but no one paid them any mind as Treville gently pushed back the long, dark curls to reveal a ragged gash on the boy’s cheekbone, no doubt where one of his father’s heavy rings had caught on tender flesh. Treville pushed aside his fury at_ that _to deal with the matter in hand._

_“Here,” He produced his own linen handkerchief. No doubt it was not nearly as fine as the young Vicomte was used to but it would serve a purpose. He pressed the cloth firmly against the freely bleeding wound, before placing the boy’s hand over it. “Hold that there. It will help stem the bleeding.”_

_The wound was much deeper than he would have liked and its ragged edges would not mend easily. Thinking quickly Treville relieved a passing servant of a half empty bottle of wine and a pile of napkins. He felt oddly comforted that the boy would reap the benefit of a lesson Treville had learnt from bitter experience, as he pulled the now ever present needle and thread from his pocket, resolutely not thinking about the time the lack of such a simple item had cost his dearest friend his life._

_“It requires needlework?” Oliver was watching him intently, as he made things ready, his words more statement than question._

_“Merely a stitch or two to close the wound, my lord,” Treville nodded politely, even as his gut twisted at the fact that the boy seemed all too familiar with the brutal process. Clearly this was not the first serious wound he had sustained. Pushing_ that _thought aside also Treville poured some of the wine onto the napkin and held it up, aware that this would hurt. “If I may?”_

_Oliver nodded his permission and then sat still and utterly silent as Treville first wiped away the blood and then flushed the wound out with the rest of the wine, before he began stitching. He knew from personal experience how painful the whole process could be but the boy didn’t make a sound, his white knuckle grip on the rim of the fountain, the only outward sign of his discomfort._

_“All done,” Treville announced as he finished tying off the last stitch. Propriety be dammed, he reached out and patted the lad’s shoulder kindly. Oliver might outrank him but he was still only a boy and he had had a hard time of things. “You did well. Many a battle hardened soldier would not have borne that as bravely.”_

_Oliver’s pale features flushed with pleasure at the simple, but heartfelt praise. His blinding smile seemed to light up his whole face. It was so endearing that Treville’s fingers twitched with the desire to muss his hair fondly._

_“I want to be a soldier,” Oliver’s blue eyes shone with sudden passion. “To serve the King by defending his country, fighting his enemies, with your comrades by your side, what could be better? When I am older I plan to speak to my father about coming to Paris to secure a commission.”_

_Treville could not fault the boy’s eagerness and, it was true that many a second son of the nobility took to soldiering as a career. It was not even beyond the bounds of possibility that the Comte might indulge his heir, at least until he came into his inheritance. Although, based on first impressions Treville wasn’t convinced the man had that much kindness in him._

_“How are you with a sword?” He enquired. “A good soldier has to be able to defend himself and his brothers.”_

_“My tutor says I am the most promising student he has ever taught,” Oliver told him, without a hint of boasting. “And I practice every day. My tutor says even the finest swordsmen in France still look to hone their skills. Perhaps you know of him? M. Gerard Thibault d’Anvers?”_

_Treville stilled. Gerard Thibault d’Anvers was a master swordsman of the first order. If considered this boy his most promising pupil, then the lad was talented indeed._

_“You’re studying here in Paris?”_

_“At the Academie,” Oliver nodded. “My father says I need polish if I am to do justice to my birth right as the Comte de la Fere. I miss my younger brother but I quite like learning about all the battles and tactics.”_

_“And what about the dancing?” Treville, who had some knowledge of the Academie’s curriculum, found himself teasing the boy._

_“M. Thibault d’Anvers says the poise and grace required for dancing is an asset on the training ground,” Oliver responded loftily, but with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I would think, as a solider, you should know that, Monsieur.”_

_Treville was startled into honest laughter. Subjected to such an overbearing parent the boy might easily have become nervous or even cowed. But Oliver d’Athos de la Fere clearly had been born with both wit and intelligence. Any man should be proud to have such a son. His fingers twitched with the need to muss those unruly curls._

_“I believe the students at the Acadamie have a half day each week,” Treveille fished. He needed to know that that this bright, promising, youth had some joy in his life. He had not missed the longing in his eyes when he had spoken about fighting alongside his comrades. “You must enjoy spending time with your friends?”_

_“My father’s reputation precedes him,” Oliver gave him a look far older than his years. “The other boys do not generally seek out my company.”_

_The flash of stark loneliness on the boy’s face was utterly heart breaking. No wonder he was missing his younger brother. What justice was there in the idea that the sins of the father should be visited upon the son? Feeling a surge of protectiveness Treville could not hold back as he gently mussed the unruly curls._

_The beaming smile he received in return had him questioning if anyone other than his younger brother ever showed this boy the least bit of affection._

_“My name is Jean-Armand du Payrer de Treville,” He offered. “Should you ever have need of a friend, whilst you are in Paris, for whatever reason, you may send a message to the King’s Barracks.”_

_“I am Oliver, d’Athos de la Fere,” the boy intoned formally, before offering an endearingly shy smile. “But you may call me Athos.”_

_“Athos?” Treville raised a brow. “Not Oliver?”_

_“My younger brother started it,” Athos’ tone clearly showed his fondness for his sibling. “Thomas said it was too confusing that father and I were both called Oliver when we each had so many other names we could use. So, Athos I became. Only father still calls me Oliver.”_

_“What about your mother?” Treville asked curiously. God willing the young Vicomte still had at least one parent who loved him enough to shield him from the harsh and critical judgement of that man._

_“She died last year,” Athos’ chin trembled for a moment as he thought about his loss, before the boy visibly forced himself back under control. “I think Father really misses her. He was never so angry before.”_

* * *

__

Now Treville caught and held his Lieutenant’s gaze hoping that every inch of his love and sincerity was conveyed in his expression, even as he reached out to touch the back of Athos’ hand gently.

“You have always had my trust, Athos and you always will. But God help us, you must address this situation with d’Artagnan before it comes to the attention of the King and Cardinal. Or it will be the worst for us all.”

“I understand,” Athos inclined his head gravely, in acknowledgement of both the heartfelt apology and the fondness which had fuelled his Captain’s anger. “Where did d’Artagnan say he could be found?”

Treville did not question his certainty that the Gascon had not merely fled. The younger man was both too proud and too honourable to simply run from his mistakes. Instead the Captain simply reached into his jacket and produced the single sheet of parchment, folded into three, sealed with a lopsided circle of candle wax with a name scrawled in a hastily written hand across the front.

_M. Le Comte de la Fere._

Treville did not miss the way Athos’ brow creased in dismay at the formal manner of address. D’Artagnan had never been one to stand on ceremony, especially, with his friends.

“The Queen is resting now, she has expressed her desire to return via Bourbon des Eaux so that she may be reunited with her ladies and made presentable for Court,” Treville looked at each of his men in turn to ensure they understood the gravity of the situation. “You have two hours before we must depart, after that I expect you to be ready to return to Paris, with or without d’Artagnan among our company.”

As the Captain turned on his heel and strode back towards the convent all three Musketeers heard his unspoken order to _sort this out._ Never one to put off unpleasant deeds Athos merely sucked in a breath and turned the parchment over, making only the briefest of eye contact with Porthos and Aramis, and taking comfort from their looks of silent support, before breaking the seal. The contents were just as bad as he’d feared.

_M. le Comte de la Fere_

_I wish to convey my_ deepest, _(underlined three times), regrets for my actions. You have shown me nothing but kindness and I have repaid you with deceit and betrayal. The Captain will tell you that I have resigned my commission. Aramis has made it clear that you will no longer be able to serve by my side. No man would judge you if you simply wish to wash your hands of me. It is truly all I deserve. However, if you desire satisfaction I will await you at the first crossroads on the road to Paris until sunset._     

At that point, words seemed to have failed the boy. There was another line or so of writing where he had clearly thought better of whatever he was going to say, and scored it through, obscuring the characters so entirely that Athos could only guess at the intended sentiment. But the round, wet, splash, of a tear, which had stained the paper, was more telling than any words.

The Gascon had signed his missive merely, _Charles d’Artagnan_ no longer presuming any kind of relationship between them. Sucking in a ragged breath Athos blinked fiercely against the stinging in his eyes and did not realise that he had crushed the letter in his fist until he felt Porthos tugging gently at his sleeve.

“Let me take a look, eh?”

Athos allowed his friend to release the parchment from his fingers and watched silently as Porthos uncurled the thin sheet and carefully smoothed it out against his thigh until it was flat again. Then with a look of intense concentration, Porthos read carefully, his lips unconsciously mouthing each word as he went. Athos felt a pang at the sight. Porthos had learnt his letters later than the rest of them, but this particular habit only came to the fore when he was truly distressed.

"D’Artagnan takes too much upon himself,” He spoke up. “He could not have known that his Milady de Winter was my wife."

"Although, it’s likely that he went ahead and mentioned your name to her," Porthos pointed out guardedly. "He was on his way to Paris with your name on his lips when the two of ‘em met. Maybe he didn’t know what was what but I’d warrant she pieced it together pretty quick."

“Regrettably, it is far worse than that.” Aramis spoke up.

The older brother in Athos was could not help but notice, that now the need to keep up appearances in front of Treville had passed, Aramis looked positively grey and wan. He had not forgotten that the man was grieving for his lost love and still reeling from his liaison with the Queen. But he knew him well enough to recognise this as something more. _He’s afraid._ Athos recognised with a sickening lurch. It was such a foreign emotion on the face of one of the most experienced soldiers in the regiment that Athos knew that whatever the answer was to his next question he was not going to like it.

“Why did you say to d’Artagnan that I would no longer be able to serve by his side?”

No matter how angry or emotional he might feel, Athos knew Aramis would _never_ have thrown such a thing in young d’Artagnan’s face unless he believed it to be the absolute truth.

“Because,” Aramis raised his weary, red rimmed, eyes to meet Athos’ own, causing the Lieutenant’s chest to tighten in dread more than any attempt at evasion would have done. “There is something else you need to know, my friend.”

“Maybe we should let d’Artagnan be the one to tell him?” Porthos hedged, guessing what Aramis was about to reveal and feeling more than a little awkward about broaching such a personal matter. "Keep things just between them, eh?"

“Of course,” Aramis shot him a scathing look. “Because our hot headed young Gascon is the utter soul of tact. Do you _wish_ this discussion to end in a challenge?”

“Gentlemen,” Athos shot them both a world weary look. “Will one of you kindly just tell me what is going on?”

"You'll recall that d’Artagnan said that he met Milady de Winter on his way to Paris?” Aramis said carefully. He waited for Athos' acknowledging nod before continuing. “She was the same woman from the Inn that he told us about, the one who framed him for murder after she had shared his bed.”

Athos eyes widened and his face drained of all colour as he realised what Aramis was trying to tell him.    

“D’Artagnan _slept with my wife?_ ”

He visibly swayed and his knees buckled under him. He would have fallen if Porthos had not stepped in to catch him, placing a hand under each arm and hauling him over to a nearby low wall. Athos sat down without a word of protest and covered face with both his hands. How easy it would have been for Anne to simply cut d’Artagnan’s throat as he slept? That fact that all that bright, eager, promise would have been snuffed out before Athos had ever know him only added to his pain.

How many other promising lives had come to a premature end because he was too much of a dammed _coward_ at her hanging to stay and see things through to the bitter end?

“It’s not as if d’Artagnan rightly knew what he was about. He hadn’t even met you back then,” Porthos’ large hand rubbed circles on his back in a slightly awkward attempt to console him. “The lad’s a proper firebrand, but he’d cut out his own heart before he’d hurt you like that.”

“Except in all these months he couldn’t find a moment to tell us about this mysterious "Guardian Angel" of his?” Aramis’ tone was rather less forgiving. “The whelp actually believed she killed those Red Guards in the ally to save his life because she was infatuated with him, not as if there would not be a debt to be settled later on.”

“Aramis, you ain’t helpin’ matters any,” Porthos hissed as he felt Athos tense under his hand at the idea of the young Gascon being beholden to his manipulative former spouse. “Maybe, he was a mite clueless but now we’re onto her tricks. We’ll find a way to stop her, all of us _together_ ,” He declared stoutly, glaring at Aramis as if daring him to disagree. “Right?"

“A _mite clueless_?” Aramis mocked sharply.

“The boy is not to blame," Athos slowly raised his head, before this could escalate further. “She is like a sweet poison that seeps into your veins. And I can hardly castigate him for being seduced by her charms when I chose to marry her.”

“Athos, you did nothing but love her. She wronged you.” Porthos did not think he could say that too often.

“No doubt she has some nefarious purpose in mind for the boy,” Athos did not even seem to have heard him. “Otherwise, she wold never have let him live past their chance meeting in the Inn. For all these months d’Artaganan has held the certain knowledge that she is a cold blooded killer. This is a woman who is utterly ruthless when crossed, she would never had let him live ..”

They all heard his voice falter as his features twisted with grief, the loss of his brother suddenly so sharp and present as to be unbearable. At once Porthos’ broad arm encircled his shoulders, tugging him close in a physical reminder of the strength of their brotherhood and Aramis’ long, thin fingers curled around the nape of his neck, the warmth of his palm as grounding as any anchor.

_If only tears could utterly wash away the mistakes of the past._

Impatient with himself for such foolish thinking Athos scrubbed at his face and set his mind to mending the present.

“D’Artagnan should be dead. He isn’t. Instead she has conspired to keep him alive. At no small danger to herself and at the risk of losing the Cardinal’s protection, clearly she has a plan for the boy. She is simply biding her time.”

“Eh, there ain’t nothing she can do that we can’t stop,” Porthos declared stoutly. “We already foiled all her plots. She can’t touch us as long as we all stand together.”

“That might be the root of our problem.” Aramis said hollowly.

“What is it?” Porthos straightened, at his friend’s uncharacteristic despondency. “What on earth did the boy say to you?”

“Whilst he was with her, d’Artagnan made a somewhat rash and unguarded promise, which will most likely come back to haunt us all,” Aramis met Athos’ eyes as he spoke the dreadful truth. “He offered to kill the man who had tried to have her hung.”

“Don’t be a right idiot,” Porthos countered gruffly. “You’ve seen how d’Artagnan dotes on Athos. He would never harm ‘im.”

Despite his initial shock at those words Athos’ realised he should have seen this coming. Of course the impetuous young Gascon, in thrall to a beautiful, sophisticated, older woman, would have thought of nothing but honour and chivalry.

“I think,” Aramis, could not look at the man he would give his own life for without a second’s thought as he made his dreadful judgement. “He already has.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed that in the flashback for 1.3 “Commodities” Anne calls her husband “Athos” (which seemed strange to me, as surely it should have been Oliver), but nonetheless I have tried to weave that into my account.


	20. Athos and D'Artagnan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peeks out slightly nervously. I thank you for your patience. Life is still ridiculously busy but I also blame the boys for the delay this time, they had issues and it got complicated! So, first up Athos and d’Artagnan talk – my longest chapter ever - and Athos and Aramis, (post convent bonding), partly written coming soon.
> 
> Also, take my advice and don't have two windows open when you are having to re-read your own story to see what happened because its been so long and are also reading something newly posted, because you end up leaving kudos on your own story by mistake which is frankly just embarrassing.

Porthos worried at his lip as he carefully settled his saddle into place. Off to his right Athos’ expression was completely hidden by his hat as he swung up onto his horse. He had abruptly ended their discussion by standing up and announcing his intention to ride out and apologise to d’Artagnan for striking him. On his left, Aramis was tight lipped and silent as he picked out his stallion’s hooves. He had vehemently protested that Athos was not at fault but Athos had shot him a such a guilt stricken look that Aramis had simply sighed deeply and touched Athos’ hand in silent sympathy before he turned away to ready his mount.

“Alright, what’s eatin’ at you?” Porthos looked at him over his shoulder, careful not to attract Athos’ attention. “You heard the man, he’s not angry at d’Artagnan. He’s more worried that wife of his might have harmed a hair on his head.”

“Of course he is,” Aramis responded tartly, placing a foreleg back on the ground and giving it a reassuring pat. "When has Athos not put others needs before his own?”

“Athos has a big heart, big enough to forgive an honest mistake,” Porthos scowled slightly as he struggled to buckle his girth on the correct hole, pressing his elbow into his mount’s side until it gave an irritated stamp and exhaled. He turned to look at Aramis. “I’d think you’d know something about that.”

“Just because he’s not blaming d’Artagnan doesn’t mean he’s not hurting,” Aramis retorted, as he hefted his saddle and slid it down carefully down his stallion’s withers into position, scowling across the animal’s narrow back at Porthos. “It’s one thing for him to know that his wife has seduced other men in her pursuit of power and influence. It’s quite another to discover one of them is someone he thinks of as a little brother.”

Porthos made a face. He’d been trying very hard _not_ to think about d’Artagnan in the throes of passion with _anyone_ , thank you very much, let alone Athos’ wife. But he supposed if he were Athos he’d be hard pressed to look at d’Artagnan without at least wondering about the two of them together. How she had enticed him, the ways she had touched him, the endearments she might have whispered in his ear ...

He coughed, a little uncomfortably.

“Alright, so things will be all kinds of awkward for a while. But the two of 'em will work it out. D’Artagnan’s willing to risk everything with this duel nonsense to earn Athos' forgiveness,” He turned around to face Aramis. “And Athos loves that boy too much not to want to get past this.”

Swiftly, Aramis ducked under the belly of his stallion, to grab Porthos by the shoulders so tightly that he knew he would have bruises.

“D'Artagnan is so in thrall to Milday de Winter that he _still_ doesn’t recognise how dangerous she is,” He hissed. “Do you have any idea how many times she has already come close to killing him?” Aramis shuddered, just thinking about it. Finding out how often that woman had kissed d’Artagnan’s throat with a dagger had taken years off _his_ life. Athos would be utterly beside himself. “But our petit Gascon thinks he can “handle” her, as if he has quite forgotten what happened to Athos’ other little brother.”

“Eh well, maybe he can.” Porthos allowed.

“I beg your pardon?” Aramis looked incredulous, stopping _just_ short of giving in to his instinct to shake some sense into his friend. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Look, I’m not saying the lad hasn’t been foolish,” Porthos allowed. “But you gotta give ‘im some credit.”

“Give him some _credit_?” Aramis’ voice rose, before he remembered the need for discretion and continued in a harsh whisper. “Milady de Winter has spent _months_ making d’Artagnan increasingly beholden to her. She clearly intends to use him as a means to destroy her _beloved_ husband. He might as well be a loaded pistol pointed at Athos’ heart!”

Aramis took a deep shuddering breath as he felt his throat tighten and his eyes sting. He knew his emotions were too close to the surface just now. Isabelle’s loss was still an open wound. His relationship with the Queen was something he could not presently begin to fathom. He was worried sick that d’Artagnan was going to get himself killed, furious with himself that he had not seen the obvious danger in the earnest young Gascon being pursued by a sophisticated older woman, and a little hurt that the boy had not confided in him.

And then there was Athos.

“You cannot have forgotten what Athos was like when we first met him? What that woman did to him? It will be the worse for us all if he tumbles down that particular rabbit hole again.”

And God help him, he _needed_ Athos right now, needed him to be the steady presence he had come to reply upon. Not lost inside his own head.

“Oh ‘ _Mis_ ,” Porthos sighed, wondering if Aramis was aware just how much of his inner turmoil showed on his face. “That ain’t gonna happen.”

_Porthos had realized, of course, that Athos had come to them haunted by some tragedy. It was obvious in the slumped shoulders and bloodshot eyes of a man whose clipped vowels otherwise marked him out as the better sort of gentleman. And in the way a man, who was so swift to give aid to others, no matter how low their station, seemed to feel he was undeserving of the least bit of human kindness._

_In those early days they had not yet learnt the points in the calendar which would trigger his darkest moods. Returning to Paris after a week-long mission, wet and weary, the success of their mission was not enough to lift any of their spirits. Days surrounded by the smell of wet horse and sodden leather, their feet squelching in their boots, rain water trickling down the backs of their clocks and along their spines, seeking out the last secret spots of dry warmth under their shirts, until they were all utterly drenched had seen to that. Worse still, damp wood and orders to travel swiftly and without attracting attention had meant day after day of cold meals eaten huddled under the meagre shelter of trees that persisted in dripping on them and uncomfortable nights, causing broken sleep. In the midst of such trials Athos_ _’_ _dark mood had seemed utterly unremarkable._

_“_ _I for one am looking forward to a hot meal and a warm bed,_ _”_ _Aramis declared expansively as they rode back into the Garrison._ _“_ _For once, quite possibly my own._ _”_

_“_ _I_ _’_ _m going to warm my feet by a good fire,_ _”_ _Porthos said, as he dismounted._ _“_ _Like two blocks of ice they are._ _”_ _He looked over at Athos, who was already handing his horse off to the stable boy. Taking in the bowed head of their usually stoic leader he felt a spark of worry. "You_ _’_ _ll join us, won_ _’_ _t you Athos?_ _”_

_“_ _Thank you, but no,_ _”_ _With a visible effort Athos straightened up and set his feet towards the stairs leading to Treville_ _’_ _s office, obviously intent on making their report. He paused to look at them as he drew level, the way his wet hair was plastered around his face making him look younger than his years. "You conducted yourselves admirably gentlemen, under the most trying of circumstances. I shall be sure to tell the Captain so."_

_"You was out there with us," Porthos reminded him. "And we would have been riding in that weather another two days at least if you hadn't known about that back road."_

_"For which you have earned our undying gratitude, my friend," Aramis' smile hid his worry at Athos_ _’_ _stark pallor. Even a man with his redoubtable strength of will had his limits and the dark circles under Athos_ _’_ _eyes were a cause for concern. "Perhaps we should accompany you to ensure that you also tell the Captain that? You do tend to be entirely too modest about your own accomplishments."_

_"That will not be necessary," Athos shook his head, although they could see he was touched that they would think to voice their appreciation._ _“_ _Enjoy your evening, gentlemen."_

_"Won_ _’_ _t you at least join us for a bite of supper after you_ _’_ _ve spoken with Treville?_ _”_ _Aramis pressed._ _“_ _I hear the tavern d_ _’_ _Or has a new cook and his beef stew is fit for the King_ _’_ _s own table._ _”_

_A_ _thos hesitated, an unexpected flood of longing sweeping through him at the thought of a simple meal enjoyed with good company, bringing after it a wave of bitter grief. The friendship of these two men had been a balm to his wounded soul these last few days, reminding him of the joy he had always found in Thomas_ _’_ _company. But it would be pure, selfish, weakness, to inflict his brooding presence on them now they were back in Paris._

_“_ _Another time perhaps,_ _”_ _He turned away._

_Porthos growled softly. He wanted to take Athos by the ear and drag him to the tavern, force some good food down his throat and set him by the fire until he was warm and dry. But he still felt too new in their friendship to simply override their Lieutenant_ _’_ _s obvious desire to be alone._

_“_ _Will you at least be sure to get out of those wet clothes?_ _”_ _He called after him._

_Already halfway up the stairs Athos halted and a flash of honest surprise, followed by an expression that could only be called humble, passed across his features at their persistent concern for his wellbeing._

_"As soon as I have spoken to the Captain, you have my word._ _”_ _Athos inclined his head gravely._

_Porthos took heart from the thought that Athos_ _’_ _word was his bond as he and Aramis reluctantly departed, making their way the short distance to the tavern d_ _’_ _Or. Noting Aramis_ _’_ _pursed lips and grave expression and recognizing the cause of it he tried to alleviate his friends_ _’_ _worry._

_“_ _Treville will see_ _‘_ _im right. He_ _’_ _ll make sure he eats something at least._ _”_

_“_ _And no doubt the good Captain will contrive to ask so many questions about our mission that our dear Athos will fall asleep in his dinner before he has even finished his report._ _”_ _Aramis allowed himself a smile at the image._

_“_ _Helped by a tot or two of the Captain_ _’_ _s best brandy,_ _”_ _Porthos warmed to their theme._

_“_ _Entirely medical, of course,_ _”_ _Aramis added loftily, before a mischievous twinkle appeared in his eye._ _“_ _Think Treville_ _’_ _ll tuck him into bed?_ _”_

_“_ _Knowing the Captain I wouldn_ _’_ _t put it past_ _‘_ _im._ _”_ _Porthos grinned broadly._

_Thus reassured the two men entered the tavern, dried themselves off in front of the fire, ate their fill of the beef stew, which was every bit as good as they had been led to believe, and drank a bottle or three of the house red. So, they did not hear Serge tell Athos that Treville was away on the King_ _’_ _s business until tomorrow and they were not there to see their friend standing utterly alone in the middle of the courtyard. Rather they stayed in the warmth and light of the tavern far longer than they had planned and when they finally left they were dismayed to find it had started raining_ again _._

_“_ _Garrison_ _’_ _s a lot closer than your lodgings._ _”_ _Porthos suggested._

_“_ _Agreed,_ _”_ _Aramis had had quite enough of being wet for one week. He gave a rueful smile, as he slung a companionable arm over Porthos shoulder._ _“_ _So much for sleeping in my own bed for once._ _”_

_They were still chuckling over that, clutching at each other, just a little unsteadily, as much through their mutual exhaustion as the effects of the wine, as they staggered under the archway into the Garrison. Given the late hour and the inclement weather they fully expected to find the courtyard deserted. So the unmoving figure, slumped over the table, apparently oblivious to the freezing rain, took them by surprise._

_“_ _Dear God, it_ _’_ _s Athos,_ _”_ _Aramis exclaimed. The man was soaked through and almost blue with cold._ _“_ _Is he wounded?_ _”_

_“’_ _He_ _’_ _s completely wasted, is what he is,_ _”_ _Porthos scowled as he caught sight of the four empty wine bottles lined up in a row under the table. Treville gave his men a good deal of leeway, but this would test even his patience._ _“_ _We_ _’_ _d best get him out of here before anyone sees._ _”_

  _Athos did not stir as they each slung an arm over their shoulders, his head hanging low, as between them he was half dragged and half carried him upstairs. There was barely space for the three of them in Porthos_ _’_ _narrow room, but somehow they managed. Aramis stoked up the fire and Porthos set to peeling off Athos_ _’_ _sodden jacket. He swore fluently as he realized those voluminous linen shirts of his had been hiding a multitude of sins. With the saturated material now clinging tightly to his torso he could see each of Athos_ _’_ _ribs standing out in stark relief. Moving carefully he peeled off the wet fabric._

_“How could we have missed this?” Aramis asked, his eyes haunted as he took in the sight._

_“We weren’t paying enough mind,” Porthos looked pained. “And he didn’t want us to see.”_

_They spent the whole night tending to him, holding his head as he vomited again and again until he had nothing to bring up, wiping away the cold tears that streamed down his face as he was tortured with nightmares, with a cool cloth and a gentle hand. As the grey light of dawn streaked across the sky all three finally fell into an exhausted sleep, Porthos sprawled in a chair with his stocking feet a comforting warmth propped against Athos’ blanket covered leg. Aramis sitting on the floor with his head tipped back against the mattress, Athos’ fingers tangled in his hair._

_Their Lieutenant had been mortified to wake up in Porthos’ bed, the stench of lingering sickness sufficient for him to remember enough of the night before to cause his pale skin to turn a deep red. His embarrassment only mounted as Porthos held a cup to his lips to ease his raging thirst, but when he reached for it his hand shook so badly he had no choice but to accept the assistance. He declined Aramis’ offer to help him to the chamber pot with a look of absolute horror and his face when he realized that, under the covers, he had been stripped to his skin was quite the picture._

_Over his friend’s protestations that he should rest Athos had forced himself upright and they had watched in dismay as he dressed in his stiff as a board, newly dried, clothes, with slow, careful movements. Then he had apologized to them for his actions. Porthos’ heart had ached for him when he realized Athos presumed they would no longer wish to serve under his command after such a shameful display._

_“Don’t be daft,” Porthos had countered gruffly, without needing to so much as glance at Aramis to know that he was in agreement. “You’re ours now, and we plan on keeping you, like it or not.”_

_“I appreciate the sentiment but the Captain will no doubt take a justifiably dim view of the matter.”_

_Athos’ mortification had eased a little in the face of such honest affection. But that did not change the fact that getting blind drunk within the precincts of the Garrison itself was a clear lapse of judgment. If word had got back to the King or the Cardinal Treville would have been rightly furious at conduct unbecoming his rank and station. As it was Athos was not looking forward to facing his disapproval for his lapse._

_Porthos wasn’t so sure about that. He had seen the way Treville had watched Athos, his face creased with worry, when he thought the other man wasn’t watching. It was obvious to him that their Captain took something of a paternal interest in Athos, even if the man himself was so invested in trying to make Treville proud, that he could not quite see it._

_“Well then,” Aramis put in, far too cheerily for someone who had had so little sleep. “We shall just have to ensure that no word of last night’s events reaches Treville’s ears.”_

_“I cannot ask that of you,” Athos had protested. The idea that these men might cover for his misdeeds had genuinely not occurred to him. “I appreciate your kindness but you have a duty to tell the Captain.”_

_“Don’t you get it?” Porthos had shook his head fondly. “You’re our brother now. You don’t have to ask us to watch your back.”_

“Athos isn’t the same man he was five years ago,” Porthos declared stoutly. His friends’ steadfast loyalty and abiding love had gone a long way to healing Athos’ past hurts. And they knew better now how to head off the worst of his melancholy before it took hold. “’Sides, you’re missing the most important thing here.”

 “Am I?” Aramis did not look remotely convinced. But at least he _was_ listening. “Pray, do enlighten me?”

 “Treville said it best. D’Artagnan ain't Thomas de la Fere,” Porthos grinned. “Our little Gascon’s a King’s Musketeer and a dammed good one at that. He loves Athos as he’s as loyal as they come. I reckon Milady will be in for a right nasty surprise if she tries to use the boy against him.”

 “And you think you can convince Athos that his murdering ex-wife, the one who has already tried to kill _him_ at least twice that we know of, is in more danger from a former Gascon farm boy, than he is from her?” Aramis challenged, but Porthos could tell that he was wavering. “Because our belief in the boy will count for nothing if we can’t set his mind at rest.”

 “S’matter of fact I do. Athos ain’t the only one who can think up a plan, and it’s a right good one too,” He boasted. “So you’d better make your peace with d’Artagnan, ‘cause I’m going to need your help.”

* * *

 

The first thing Aramis saw when the crossroads hoved into view was d’Artagnan’s familiar mare grazing contentedly by the roadside. As the three of them pulled up their horses the Gascon walked into the road to meet them, looking utterly wretched. Aramis felt a wash of sympathy for his newest brother as he swallowed hard, before raising his chin bravely. They all knew d’Artagnan had yet to land so much as a hit on Athos. Offering the Comte de la Fere satisfaction was akin to signing his own death warrant.

“My apologies, I have no seconds.”

“Don’t be a right idiot, he ain’t come to challenge you,” Porthos declared roundly, as he dis-mounted. “None of us have. We just need to sort this mess out. Ain’t that right, Aramis?”

 Aramis slipped his feet out of the stirrups, kicked his leg over his horse’s neck and dropped lightly to the ground. He didn’t blame the boy for giving him a wary look as he approached. They had hardly parted on the most cordial of terms.

“My sincerest apologies, Porthos has quite rightly taken me to task. I spoke too harshly,” Aramis doffed his hat and pressed it to his heart, before looking him in the eye. “You are my brother, d’Artagnan and no matter how great my anger my love for you will always exceed it.”

“You have always had my best interests at heart,” D’Artagnan acknowledged shyly, as he remembered the number of times Aramis had appointed himself his protector, berating a Red Guard who had laughed at the boy’s provincial clothes, or to taking to task a stall holder who tried to short change him when he was newly arrived in Paris. “I would be most ungrateful to forget that.”

“Good,” Aramis said decisively, planting his hat back on his head and opening his arms in clear invitation. D’Artagnan fell into them gratefully, relieved beyond measure that they were no longer at enmity. He gave a rueful smile as Aramis’ voice spoke in his ear, even as he hugged him a little tighter. “Don't think I’m not still furious at you. We cannot care for you as brothers should if you do not confide in us. Must you be so much like Athos that you have to learn that the hard way?”

“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan vowed as they pulled apart. “I never meant to cause anyone to worry.”

None of them missed the heart wrenching look he cast in Athos’ direction. His expression still hidden by his hat their Lieutenant slowly dismounted. D’Artagnan took a deep breath and drew himself up to his full height, determined to do his mentor proud in meeting his fate bravely if nothing else.

“Go on then,” Porthos gave d’Artagnan a little shove as Athos stepped forward. “He won’t bite.”

D’Artagnan braced himself as Athos removed his hat. He fully expected to see nothing but recrimination in his mentor’s expression. He was shocked to see Athos’ features were lined with grief and his eyes damp with tears. The realization that his actions had clearly deeply wounded a man he so loved and admired ensured that he forgot every word of his carefully thought out apology.

“Athos, I’m sorry, I’m  _so_ sorry,” He babbled. “I didn’t know she was your wife. I swear I didn’t know.”

“It is I who should be offering my apologies,” Athos responded, lowering his eyes in shame. “I should never have struck you. There was no excuse for my lack of control. It was quite unforgivable. Please accept my deepest regrets.” At that, he gave a low bow.

D’Artagnan looked completely at a loss. He had no idea how to respond to such formality from his best friend. He desperately wanted to say there was nothing to forgive but he knew Athos’ deep sense of honour would never accept that.

“It is already forgotten,” He assured him, giving a slightly self-conscious bow in return. As they both straightened up he drew on all his courage and looked Athos in the eye.  

“I told Treville that I would resign my commission,” He offered bravely. “But if there is any way I can repair the great disservice I have done to you it would be my honour to continue to serve under your command.”

“You are by far the most promising recruit I have ever trained. You have it in you to be the greatest of us all,” Athos shook his head. “It would be to the detriment to the regiment and to France if you were to resign your commission.” 

“You would still serve by my side?” D’Artagnan’s face lit up with heartbreakingly, painful hope.

Only to have Athos hesitate and then avert his gaze.

“Our orders are to escort the Queen back to Paris. I trust you will be in our company.” He evaded.

“What the ‘ell?” Porthos blinked.

“Oh, I have a _very_ bad feeling about this,” Aramis murmured.  

For his part, d'Artagnan's face visibly crumpled at the perceived rejection and his fists clenched at his side as he struggled to contain his emotions.

“On reflection, I fear I have neglected my responsibilities in Gascony for too long,” He forced out, trying to hide his emotions, but failing miserably, as bitter hurt coloured his every word. “The farm must be rebuilt and I need to ensure our tenants are well taken care of. It is what my father would have wanted.”    

Athos blinked as if d'Artagnan had struck  _him_ and actually took a step back, only to be steadied by Aramis’ firm hand on his shoulder and his voice speaking low and urgently in his ear.

“Oi,” Porthos grabbed d’Artagnan by the bicep and towed him, none too gently, to one side. They all knew how sensitive Athos was about his obligations at la Fere. The Gascon’s words would be like rubbing salt into that wound. “What was that rubbish all about?” 

“Do you think Athos is the only one who can do the honourable thing?” D’Artagnan looked skywards as he stubbornly refused to let his tears fall. “He wants me to stay for the sake of the regiment. But he doesn’t want to repair our friendship. So, given all that I owe him, the least I can do is ensure that he does not have to suffer my presence.”

“Another man might see that as base ingratitude. Athos didn’t spend all that time training you for you to cast it aside first chance,” Porthos countered sharply. He knew d’Artagnan was hurting but this was no time to indulge him. “Not to mention the King is expecting to see all four of us when he's reunited with the Queen. You think he won't notice his newest favourite is missing? And then Athos will feel duty bound to tell the entire court about his protégé cuckolding him. The Cardinal will ‘ave a field day. Are you really going to subject a man that has been nothing but good to you to that kind of public shame?”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” d’Artagnan admitted, contritely. “Alright, I’ll come back with you to Paris. But I won’t force Athos to serve alongside me unless he makes it clear he truly desires it.”

“Fair enough,” Porthos figured they could worry about that once they were all safely back at the Garrison. For now he pulled d’Artagnan’s pauldron from his jacket, grateful that one of them at least had had the forethought to collect it from Treville. “You gonna put this back on then? The Queen will notice if you ain’t wearing it.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes, but obediently reached out for the insignia. He frowned as his fingers traced the marks in the leather where it had been folded inside Porthos’ jacket.

“You creased it.” He pouted.

Porthos hid his grin. If the Gascon was still so protective of his uniform all was not lost. Without a word, he plucked the shoulder guard out of d’Artagnan’s hands and slid it up his arm, speaking quietly as he deftly buckled the straps.

“Athos loves you more than his own life. He’ll do whatever he thinks is necessary to keep you safe, even if that means pushing you away. Think on that, before you take his actions too much to heart, ‘eh?”

* * *

Treville’s face darkened with the suspicion that he was being coddled when Athos produced a pony and trap, borrowed from the nuns. But he could not fault his second in command’s arguments that the correct proprieties should be observed, now that the immediate danger was past and that he as the ranking officer was the obvious choice to convey the Queen. That Athos did not even mention the fact that Treville’s injured shoulder was clearly causing him untold agonies, which would have made travelling back to Paris on horseback like the seven circles of hell only served to underline the man’s good sense.

“I’ve trained you too well.” He grumbled, making a show of his resistance as he gratefully climbed in and took up the reins.

Athos’ lips twitched, hearing the unspoken affection behind the gruff words.

“You’re welcome.”

Aramis also had reason to be thankful for Athos’ good sense. Yesterday, riding tandem with Anne had been an undreamt of pleasure. Today, in full view of the regiment, who had belatedly turned up as re-enforcements, it would have been a particular kind of torture. The look of disappointment on Anne’s face when she saw the pony and trap was hopefully taken as Royal dismay at travelling in such a humble conveyance, although the expression of longing she threw in his direction said otherwise.     

Beside him Aramis felt Athos tense. Last night facing almost certain death under siege at the Convent he and Anne had seemed cut off from the world. In the cold light of day the danger of their tryst seemed all too apparent. Anne’s lingering look was exactly the kind of behavior which would get them all hanged. And it would only get worse when they returned to Court where the King’s hangers on seized on the slightest whiff of scandal with unmitigated glee.

The worst of it all was, Aramis knew Athos didn’t care for his own sake, his brother was sick with worry for him.

“D’Artagnan’ll be right sorry if the wind changes and his face gets stuck in that frown,” Porthos’ voice cut into his thoughts, reminding Aramis that they also had other problems. “Have the two of ‘em spoken a word to each other since we left the crossroads?”

“Not that I’ve seen,” Aramis sighed. “Maybe things will improve once we get back to Paris.” 

“We should make a detour on the way back,” Porthos scowled. “Pick up those cooking things we had to leave behind when Gallagher was chasing us. That copper pot cost me two days wages. I really hate wasting stuff.”

“Porthos, my friend, you are a born genius,” Aramis visibly brightened. “I shall go and seek the Captain’s permission straight away.”

If Treville was bemused by a sudden, driving, need to collect a simple cooking pot, he did not show it. He might be unaware of Aramis' desire to put some temporary distance between his friends and his folly with the Queen. But he saw certainly the wisdom in giving the four of them an opportunity to come to terms with recent events without having to keep up appearances in front of every solider in the ranks. His only stipulation was that they should be in Paris tomorrow to attend upon the Queen as she returned to the Palace.

“If it’s so important I'll buy Porthos another cooking pot.” D’Artagnan sulked, when told of the change of plans.

“You never have two sous to rub together,” Aramis reminded him tolerantly. “Besides, this isn’t actually about the cooking pot. Like it or not you need to talk things out with Athos.”

“Athos has made his feelings perfectly clear.” D’Artagnan scowled.

“No, that's the problem,” Aramis ran a hand through his hair. “He  _really_ hasn’t.”

It went against everything he was to betray any of Athos’ confidences, even the inadvertent ones. No doubt d’Artagnan would find out for himself sooner or later, just as he and Porthos had done. But that was hardly the point.

“I’m not .. I could never ..,” D’Artagnan swallowed hard and looked away, sucking his cheeks in hard as he fought to keep his voice steady. “I would never presume that he could care for me as he did for Thomas.”

Aramis blinked in surprise. Was that what d’Artagnan was worried about? Finally, something that was easily fixed.

“Of course not,” Aramis agreed so readily that d’Artagnan actually looked slightly wounded. With a smile Aramis reached out and tousled his hair fondly, bringing his hand down to be a reassuring weight on his shoulder as he continued. “Athos loves each one of us differently. But that does not mean that he does not care for us equally or that we are not all his brothers, just as much as Thomas ever was. If you were to return to Gascony it will hurt him more than when Thomas was ripped from his life, because you will have made the choice to abandon him. And because he has known so little love in his life that he will think it is no more than he deserves.”

D’Artagnan went very still and closed his eyes tightly. It had never occurred to him that a man as good as Athos might think he was not worthy of love.  Silently Aramis gently used his thumb to wipe away one of the tears that escaped under his dark lashes.

“I’ll talk to him,” D’Artagnan managed _,_ sucking in a ragged breath and opening his eyes, knowing Aramis would not judge him for his tears. “I swear on my father’s memory, I’ll find a way to make things right between us.”

The inconvenient of a summer storm meant there was little chance whilst they were on the road together. Instead, they focused on travelling as swiftly as possible. When they finally reached their former campsite Porthos was delighted to find everything untouched. He collected enough wood to see them through the night and set a fire, D’Artagnan deftly skinned and boned the two plump rabbits, which had been a gift from the grateful nuns, Aramis took over the cooking, producing fragrant bundles of herbs from his saddlebags so that by the time Athos had finished settling the horses for the night he were greeted by with a welcoming blaze and a bowl of warming stew.   

“Thank you.”

He accepted his dinner from Aramis with a grateful nod. By long habit Porthos had already settled beside Aramis so he quietly took the remaining space next to d’Artagnan. As they settled down to eat none of them missed the way he simply stirred the food around his bowl, not once lifting the spoon to his lips. Instead his gaze kept drifting to the bruise on the Gascon's cheek. D’Artagnan pretended not to notice as Athos gathered himself to say whatever was on his mind.

"Is it bad?" He asked finally.

"I can hardly feel it," D'Artagnan said honestly. He tried for levity. "I think Constance has hit me harder."

To his dismay his small attempt at comfort fell flat. Athos’ fingers tightened around his spoon and he looked away, so that d’Artagnan had to strain to hear his next words.

“It is a matter of intent.”

“You mean like last month when we were attacked by those bandits and the leader had Porthos on his knees with a knife at his throat?” d’Artagnan enquired mildly. “You hit that man so hard you broke his nose and he fell like a tree, cracking his head open on the cobbles, so that he died on the spot.”

“He was going to kill Porthos,” Athos reminded him. “There was little time for finesse."

"I think what the lad is trying to say is when you actually intend to harm people you usually do a better job of it than a bit of a slap that won't even leave much of a mark come morning." Porthos put in helpfully.

“Athos, you have been friend, mentor and brother to me. You are more patient than I deserve,” d’Artagnan said earnestly. “If on this occasion you were pushed beyond endurance the fault was entirely mine.”

“She was your patron for the contest,” Athos’ tone was flat and his eyes hooded as he stared into the flames of their camp fire. “Are the two of you still lovers?”

“No, I swear, it was just that one time at the Inn, before I knew you,” d’Artagnan hoped his deep blush at the memory of how flattered had he been by her attentions, as if he could ever truly compare to a man like Athos, was masked by the firelight. “If you can find it in your heart to forgive me I will spend my life trying to regain your good opinion.”

“That is not necessary. You could not possible have known of Anne’s connection to me,” The way that Athos was so swift to absolve him oddly only made d’Artagnan feel more ashamed. “You were raw with grief and felt yourself alone in the world. No man would judge you for taking comfort when it was offered.”

Beside him Porthos heard Aramis suck in a harsh breath. But when he turned to look at his friend in silent enquiry Aramis simply shook his head sharply and averted his gaze.

“No doubt she saw that vulnerability in you and she sought to exploit it,” Athos continued his eyes dark with some memory. “That is what she does. It is what she has always done.”

D’Artagnan frowned. It almost sounded as if Athos was speaking of himself. He couldn’t think of any way his deeply impressive mentor might be called vulnerable, expect for his habit of loving so deeply. So lost was he in his thoughts, that he only belatedly realized that Aramis was talking.

“The love of a good woman is something worth dying for, d’Artagnan. But Milady de Winter is  _not_ a good woman.” Aramis observed, his eyes fixed on Athos, even as he addressed the younger man. “Love that is conditional, that does not give freely and without censure. That is not true love. However, much a grief stricken heart might wish it so.”

Ahos pressed his lips together and said nothing.

It was a fool, I know it,”d’Artagnan gave a bashful smile still feeling more than a little awkward at the idea that he had bedded Athos’ _wife._ “When we return to Paris I will cut all ties with her.”

“You’ll ‘ave to repay her the 30 livres she gave you to enter the contest,” Porthos spoke up. “Else she will still have a hold over you.”

“The money is the least of our problems,” Athos sighed. He generally took pains not to flaunt his wealth in front of his friends but in this case he would gladly settle the debt. “Anne has spent months insinuating herself into his good graces. She will not release him so easily.”

“And Treville will want to know about Milady de Winter,”d’Artagnan buried his head in his hands. It had been hard enough baring his soul to his brothers. The thought of admitting to Captain Treville that he had been seduced by Athos’ wife made him squirm with embarrassment. “He’s going to be so disappointed in me.”

“Don’t be surprised if there’s a whole load of musket drills in your future.” Porthos actually sounded like he was amused at his misfortune. “Aramis here did some quick thinking and told Treville we were quarrelling about you fumblin’ that reload when Gallagher’s men were after us, so presently he’s none the wiser about the rest of it.”

“You did that?” d’Artagnan bit his lip, looking impossibly young as he stared wide eyed at Aramis. “But you were so angry at me.”

“I was scared,” Aramis corrected gently, before giving a rueful shrug. “And angry, that woman had come close to killing you several times and you seemed utterly oblivious to the danger she represnts.”

D’Artagnan winced as he felt Athos slowly uncoil beside him, like a python who was about to strike. He couldn’t _believe_ Aramis had just said that. Surely he must know how badly Athos would react?

“How many times, _exactly_?” Athos asked dangerously calmly.

“You already know about the first time. That night at the Inn, when she left a bloody knife in his pillow and tried to frame him for murder,” Porthos said blithely, as if it was nothing. “She could easily have killed d’Artagnan in his sleep and we would never even have met him.”

“It was fortunate she didn’t decide to steal your weapon and use it against you,” Aramis gave d’Artagnan a look that was altogether too _knowing_. “People might have thought that was suicide. A young man newly arrived in Paris and all alone in the world, mourning the death of his father. It would have been impossible to trace the crime back to her.”

“Yeah, very neat that’d be.” Porthos agreed.

“ _Did_ she try to take one of your weapons?” Athos pinned d’Artagnan with a look.

“Um," The Gascon squirmed at the memory of her stealing his main gauche and putting it to his neck as they flirted on the landing. "Yes, but then she gave it back to me.”

“Of course, she really didn’t need to trouble herself with killing you at all,” Aramis observed airly. “You practically did that yourself by jumping out of that first floor window. Trust me when I say there is a knack to such things. Many a desperate man has landed on his head and broken his neck.”

“Then there was that time, when out of all the homes in Paris, she went to the trouble to find out where you was living and turned up on your doorstep.” Porthos added, apparently oblivious to d’Artagnan’s frantic signals to _stop talking_. “That’s proper keen that is, could have turned right nasty.”

“Of course, she _was_ his saviour in the alley,” Aramis acknowledged. At Athos’ sardonic look he shrugged lightly. “I like to be fair. But then of course, she did put her dagger to his throat.”

Athos went very still.

“You weren’t supposed to say anything about that.” D’Artagnan hissed.

“How did she get close enough to put her blade to your throat?” Athos’ eyes narrowed sharply.   Granted d’Artagnan had been unarmed at the time but he had learnt enough from Porthos that that should not mean he was defenceless. “You are not that poor a fighter.”

“No doubt he was distracted by her beauty, or her intoxicating scent, perhaps the colour of her eyes,” Aramis cut in before d’Artagnan could find his voice, continuing in a tone of mock dismay. “Women have so many weapons in their armoury. It’s really quite unfair. She could so easily have gutted him where he stood.”  

“But that’s what? Only five times,” Porthos added chirpily. “S’nothing really when you think of all the other ways he could have been killed since he became a musketeer.”

“Thank you gentlemen,” d’Artagnan was astonished to realise Athos’ tone was dry with _amusement_ of all things. Snapping his head around to gawp at his mentor he just caught the way he was rolling his eyes at his two long-time friends. “Your point is sufficiently well made."

"It is?" d'Artagnan was more than a little bemused.

It was Athos who answered him.

"By rights you should already be dead," Athos glanced across at Aramis and Porthos his eyes soft with affection for the rather elaborate pains they had taken to ease his fears that he might lose d’Artagnan in the blink of an eye as he had Thomas, before looking back at his protégé. “Since you are not, then perhaps you are not quite the lamb to the slaughter that Anne believes you to be.”

“I will _never_ allow her to use me against you, not ever,” d’Artagnan vowed fervently. “You are far too important to me for that.”

“As you are to me,” Athos acknowledged, with a fond quirk of his lips, reaching out to cup the back of d’Artagnan’s neck and squeeze gently, causing the younger man to blink fiercely as Athos held his gaze, his eyes full of love. “I am heartily sorry that you, of all people, have been dragged into my troubles. But no matter what happens, you will always be my little brother d’Artagnan. I am heartily sorry if I gave you any cause to doubt that.”  

“But you’re still not planning on continuing to serve by his side, are you? Nor any of us,” Aramis spoke quietly, but with absolute certainty. “Or did you think I would so easily forget what you said after we escaped the clutches of DuPont?”  


	22. Campfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you have a better plan, I will listen,” Athos conceded. “However, I will not allow a single one of you to sacrifice yourself for my folly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter somewhat ran away with me. The boys started talking and suddenly I was at over 6000 words without even addressing the Athos and Aramis post convent bonding I promised. That’s still coming but I really wanted Athos to open up a little first.

The argument swiftly became rather heated. D’Artagnan found himself rather startled by the sheer ferocity of it. These men were inexorably bound together by their shared experiences and their deep and abiding for one another. But just now Aramis was accusing Athos of being a self-sacrificing _idiot_ and Athos was claiming Aramis was behaving like a short-sighted _fool_. 

“My decision is made,” Athos’ furious tone brooked no further dissent. “As soon as we return to Paris I will inform the King that I must take a leave of absence from the Regiment to deal with some urgent business at la Fere.”

“By all means,” Aramis’ tone was dripping with sarcasm. “Go back to the place where she has already tried to kill you once and would have succeeded if d’Artagnan had not returned to drag you from the flames.”

“An unfortunate co-incidence, neither of us could have expected to see the other there,” Athos dismissed his concern. “I will be on my guard this time.”

“There are many ways to kill someone, Athos,” Aramis reminded him sharply. “One man alone cannot possibly be always on his guard. Unless, of course, you are _trying_ to make it easy for her to kill you?"

“Hey now, don’t go  a frettin’, they’ll work it out,” The soft huff of Porthos’ breath across his cheek and the comforting weight of his arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulder made the Gascon feel suddenly very young. He gave the other man a bashful smile, embarrassed that his upset at watching his friends fight was quite so obvious. Porthos simply patted his leg kindly as he cocked his head in enquiry. “Didn’t your parents ever argue?”

“Not in my hearing,” d’Artagnan said honestly. Of course, he had been only ten when he mother had died. But he appreciated what Porthos was trying to do, especially as he knew his friend had never known his father and his own mother had died when he was five. “I suppose they must have occasionally.”

“And it didn’t mean they didn’t love each other. Sometimes it means people love too much.” Porthos regarded his friends with fond exasperation. “Athos has always been too quick to sacrifice himself for others' sake and since Savoy Aramis has been on a mission to save the world, no matter what the cost to himself, and neither of ‘em want to see the other come to harm.”

"Treville recruited me when I had _nothing_ to recommend me. I always vowed I would _never_ allow my past to call his judgment into question,” Now Athos was actually shouting. His usual calm façade utterly cast aside. “Or that _my_ conduct should bring the slightest dishonour to the regiment. I told you five years ago when we were held hostage by DuPont that I would _resign_ before I would allow that.”

“You have clearly forgotten what I told you," Aramis gave no quarter. He would obey Athos' orders without question, but he would not stand by and watch him take such a suicidal risk. "We are Musketeers, danger is our life blood. More than that Treville loves you. Do you think he will sit idly by whilst you deliberately put yourself in danger?”

"I hope that he will respect my wishes," Athos said pointedly. "Just as I would expect my friends to do likewise."

“Have you have us break our word to do it?" Aramis retorted hotly. "Have you also forgotten that Porthos and I are your sworn brothers? Do you honestly think all these _protestations_ of yours about duty and honour will change _that_?” Aarmis gripped the front of Athos jacket and shook him, just a little.  “Wherever you go, _we will follow_.”

Silence fell as the two men glared at each other, both breathing a little heavily, as Aramis, slightly self-consciously, took his hands off Athos.

“If you have a better plan, I will listen,” Athos conceded. “However, I will not allow a single one of you to sacrifice yourself for my folly.”

 “So, when we return to the Palace and you make your declaration to the King, do you also plan to do your duty and reveal my act of treason?” Aramis asked in a tone that made it quite clear he did not believe for an instant Athos would do so a thing.

“You know that I will not.” Athos sounded faintly offended at the idea. He had already vowed to take that secret to the grave.

Out of the corner of his eye Porthos noticed d’Artagnan open his mouth to ask the obvious question. The sharp press of his boot on the boy’s foot closed d’Artagnan’s mouth shut with a snap as he bit off a sharp yelp of plain. As d’Artagnan turned to fix him with a wounded look, a swift shake of Porthos’ head _not now_ put that particular problem off until later.   

“So, you are fully prepared to die for _my_ folly, but you will not extend me the same privilege?” Aramis burst out. “I never took you for a hypocrite, Athos.”

Athos froze, his expression going completely blank.

“Damn,” Porthos swore fervently, even as he surged to his feet. “He shouldn’t have said that.”

“Why not?” d’Aratgnan wondered, standing up in his turn, “It’s not nearly as bad as some of the other things he’s said.”

But then he caught the look of absolute horror which passed across Aramis’ face as he registered his own words. He looked physically sick as he reached out a hand towards Athos in supplication.

“Athos, my dear friend,” Aramis looked really upset. “I didn’t mean that. I have no idea what came over me. Can you forgive me?”

“You’ve had a difficult time of things of late. It is understandable that you are not entirely yourself,” Athos immediately excused, although he looked un-characteristically shaken. Taking a deep breath to steady himself and he reached out to grip Aramis’ hand. “And you have forgiven me much worse.”

“I have, haven’t I?” Aramis managed a distinctly watery smile.

D’Artagnan watched, a feeling of warmth spreading through his chest as Athos used his grip to pull Aramis in. The sharpshooter sagged bonelessly against him, one hand gripping Athos’ jacket like a life line, the other curling around his waist as he sought to anchor himself.  Athos wrapped an arm around his shoulders, elegant long fingers threading through his hair as he murmured soft words of comfort in his ear. It was only that that d’Artagnan realised that Aramis was crying, almost silent tears spilling down his face and soaking into Athos’ shoulder.

D’Artaganan felt oddly privileged at the sight. He was heartily sorry for Aramis’ distress but touched beyond words that these men would allow him to witness their pain. It cemented his place in their brotherhood more strongly that any of their well -meaning words possibly could and made him feel protective of them, like they belonged to him now, just as much as he had come to belong to them.

“I cannot stand by as another I love goes to their death,” Aramis protested as he tried to collect himself. “Please don’t ask that of me.”

D’Artagnan felt a wash of sympathy for his friend. He knew how hard Aramis had taken Marsac’s death.

“Will he be alright?” He murmured to Porthos.

“Eh, he’s grieving,” Porthos allowed. “Aramis is strong as they come, but coming so soon after Marsac, losing anyone else was gonna hit him hard, much less someone he’d loved all those years.”

“Wait,” D’Artagnan frowned, as he realised this wasn’t about Marsac, or, at least, not completely. “Who died?”

Athos rarely swore. His breeding did not permit it and his childhood nurse had employed such an effective regime of soaping his mouth for any words, usually blithely copied from the stable hands, which were considered unbecoming to a nobleman, that even once he had found himself in the company of soldiers he had shied away from adopting their coarser manners of speech. But just now, he was _sorely_ tempted. How could they have neglected to realise that d’Artagnan knew nothing about the death of Aramis’ lost love?

“It’s a long story. As a young man I was due to wed.”

It was Aramis who answered, lifting his head from Athos’ shoulder and using his hand to dash away the last of his tears, even as he gave Athos a grateful look. His brother nodded his understanding. It had been days now since either of them had got any real rest and their bodies were in that state which came after the danger of battle was over when limbs felt weak and shaky. It was enough to undo the best of men and Aramis had suffered too many harsh blows of late.

“You were going to be _married_?” d’Artagnan immediately looking rather chastened when he recalled where this conversation was going. “My apologies please continue.”

“I loved her,” Aramis with such a heartfelt simplicity d’Artagnan was humbled by it. “And there was to be a child. Things didn’t go according to plan. The babe was lost, Isabelle left the village and I spent years searching for her, only for our paths to cross again at the Convent.”

“She was the nun that died, Sister Helene?” d’Artagnan had heard that much, at least. Eyes full of sympathy he hurried forward and gripped Aramis’ arm in comfort. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Aramis dipped his head, acknowledging the kindness. He sat back down, next to Porthos and took heart from the way his brother put his hand on his back, steady and sure, grounding him to the present. He pinched his nose determined not to let any more tears fall. “It is ridiculous that this should affect me so deeply. Isabelle spoke the truth when she said we had no future together. She was already lost to me years ago. It should not still have the power to undo me so.”

“It is hard to let go of one’s dreams,” Athos said quietly, meeting no-one’s eyes, as he sat down in his turn. “No matter how unfounded.”

Aramis gave him a shrewd look, the flickering firelight allowing him to catch the hint of sadness in Athos’ expression reminding him how many of his friend’s hopes had also been trampled into dust. Reaching over to his left Aramis dragged his saddle bag a little closer and rummaged around until his slender fingers curled around smooth glass. He held the bottle up for Athos’ inspection.

 “Honey and grape brandy. Isabelle made it using my father’s old recipe. It is one of the few remaining bottles that were not used to send Ghallagher’s men to their rest,” He looked at the others with a smirk, hoping to banish that look of melancholy from his friend's face. “Athos’ mother superior gave it to me in remembrance of our bond.”

 “Summit you want to tell us, Athos?” Porthos grinned at Aramis’ description of the Mother Superior as “his”.

 “The good woman old enough to be my Grandmother,” Athos rolled his eyes. “And determined to protect her home and the only family she knew. I can hardly take any credit for that.”

 “Don’t sell yourself short, my friend,” Aramis chided. “You forget that Porthos and I have seen the most miserable rabble rally and follow you to victory against all odds. You have a way of bringing out the best in people.” As he spoke he pulled out his main gauche, intent on extracting the cork from the small bottle. “I think we could all use a drink.”

 To his surprise, Athos stayed his hand.

 “If you wish for company, I will gladly raise a toast to your Isabelle’s courage, but please, do not trouble yourself on my account.  That is a gift that should be savoured, not poured upon the open wound of my present difficulties.”

 “My father always said this was made with love and thus best enjoyed with those close to your heart.” Aramis observed, as he used his knife to split halfway down the cork and then twist it out with practiced ease. He took a swallow, feeling the familiar smooth warmth soothing the ache in his heart just a little, as did the soft look of gratitude in Athos’ eyes as they passed the bottle between them.

 Athos tipped his head back a little, his throat rippling as he took a drink, before passing it onto d’Artagnan. Not wanting spirits to be his brother’s only comfort Aramis reached out and covered Athos’ hand with his own, where it lay on the ground between them, and squeezed gently. Athos threw him a slightly startled look.

But he did not withdraw his hand.

“You know,” Porthos cleared his throat a little awkwardly, as if unsure how his next words would be received, as he took the bottle from d’Artagnan and drank in his turn. “They say a trouble shared is a trouble halved.”

“Or in this instance, it would be quartered," Aramis added helpfully, seeing Porthos’ intent. “And as we all know a festering wound always heals better when it has been lanced and left open to the world.”

“You don’t have to tell us anything,” d'Artagnan added earnestly, not wanting Athos to feel obliged. “But if you wish to talk we will gladly listen.”

Athos looked at the three brothers of his heart. These men had seen the very worst of him and still their eyes shone with love and _admiration_.  With a slight start he realised they did not think him weak for battling with his demons. They saw only his bravery in carrying on.  With a sense of unworthiness he recognised that that they would _never_ choose to leave him. He felt what he knew was a slightly hysterical urge to laugh and gripped Aramis’ hand so tightly that he felt the thin bones shift under his palm as he willed his voice to be steady enough to speak.  

“For years I dreaded that those around me might discover my dark past,” He tried to explain himself. “I sought to hold myself aloof believing that I was undeserving of friendship least I led those I loved into disaster,” His smiled fondly. “But I found myself quite defenceless against such a determined onslaught.”

“That was most certainly our intention.” Aramis was swift to assure him. “You were one of the finest men we had ever met and yet you seemed utterly unaware of your own good qualities.”

“And then some years after my heart was besieged with such quiet determination that I could not help but be reminded of the persistence of my younger brother,” Athos pressed his lips together his eyes bright with emotion as he looked at d’Artagnan. “As soon as he could walk Thomas became my shadow, his bright smile was a source of constant joy and his adoration, albeit it somewhat unfounded, made me want to be a better man. I never expected to have those particular feelings stirred ever again,

Athos paused, acutely aware of Aramis’ comforting touch, which gave him the strength to continue.      

“I feared that if my friends,” He paused. “ _My brothers_ , discovered the worst of me they would they would look at me with disgust and abandon me to my fate,” He paused and added with characteristic understatement. “And I had become quite accustomed to their company.”

Athos had no clear memory of those evenings when he had been at his very worst, often drinking himself into a stupor, sometimes venting his pain with a rough tavern brawl entirely unsuited to his true station, which left him nursing bruised and swollen knuckles, before emptying his stomach in the street, or perhaps using his sharp tongue to goad a Red Guard into a duel, never actually loosing but frequently oddly welcoming the sharp flash of pain as a lucky thrust managed to graze arm or thigh, when he moved a fraction slower than usual, drawing beads of blood

What he did recall was Porthos’ large hands, gently cradling his head as he helped him to drink cool water, as his head pounded unmercifully, or Aramis quietly scolding him over his all but self-inflicted wounds, even as he tended him with gentle hands. Being deftly stripped of wet and soiled, clothes, tenderly cleaned with a wet cloth, and dressed in a soft nightshift, before being tucked into bed between fresh lavender scented sheets, with the comforting warmth of Aramis’ lean body cleaving to his left side and Porthos’ reassuring rumble as he snored away to his right.

Since d’Artagnan had joined their company Athos  _had_ strived to set a better example. For d’Artagnan he had cut down his daily recourse to drink. For d’Artagnan he had rediscovered that infinite well of patience that had tolerated all of Thomas’ childhood escapades with nothing more than a raised brow and a word of mild rebuke. And had hid his smile, so as not to wound youthful pride, when d'Artagnan had reacted just as Thomas always had, redoubling his efforts to win Athos' approval. For d’Artagnan he had allowed himself to remember the man he used to be before she all but destroyed him. Because the young Gascon had  _needed_ him and Athos had never been able to find it with in himself to turn away those in need, not matter what the cost to his own heart.

“Accustomed he says,” Porthos huffed fondly. “That’s nice, that is.”

In spite of himself Athos’ lips quirked slightly, so thoroughly warmed by his friend's ready acceptance, that he managed a little humour of his own.

“Would you prefer that I professed my undying love for you all like one of the swooning heroines in Aramis’ romance novels?” He asked dryly.

“You don’t need to do that,” Aramis ghosted his thumb gently across the back of Athos’ hand. “You show us how much you love us every day. You always have.”

The look of pleased surprise on Athos’ face made him look ridiculously boyish. It was a stark reminder of the heavy burden of grief, guilt and pain that their brother had been carrying every day for all these years.

“Look we'll find a way to keep Treville’s name from being dragged through the mud,” Porthos promised him, knowing that Athos' respect and affection for the Captain would be a sticking point. “But you better get used to the fact that we ain’t gonna let you face her all alone.” 

“And we would all be better armed against her machinations if we understood better what to expect.” Aramis add meaningfully.

The sidelong look that Athos’ slid him said clearly that he both admired and abhorred his argument. But as much as he hated to strip his soul bare the idea of placing his brothers blindly into danger, when it was in his power to prevent it, was even more distasteful. It had been Thomas’ ignorance of Anne’s true nature, after all, which had led to his death. Given that his brothers were clearly resolved to stand by him they deserved the truth of it.

“Agreed,” He said wearily, rubbing a tired hand over his face, before looking uncharacteristically lost. “Although, I confess I do not know where to start.” 

“S’easy, just start at the beginning,” Porthos passed him the remains of the brandy and said helpfully. “How did you two meet?”

 Athos took a long swallow, draining the last few mouthfuls from the small bottle and set it carefully to one side as he began his tale.

 “Anne came to la Fere the year after my father died. It had all been most unexpected. He was taken with a sudden illness and died within a fortnight. I had not yet attained my majority. I was younger than d’Artagnan here and quite ill prepared for the weight of responsibility which landed on my shoulders.”

 “But..” D’Artagnan began, only to cut himself off with a wince.

 “No.” Athos encouraged him. “By all means, do say whatever is on your mind.”

 “You were the heir,” D’Artagnan stated the obvious. His own father had started taking him around the farm as soon as he could walk. During his schooling he had been given chores to do, working alongside the farm hands, practicing his figures on the accounts and his reading on the correspondence. “Did your father not teach you how to manage the estate?”

“The situation was complicated,” Athos looked somewhat pained. “I longed to be a soldier and felt ill suited to the life of a Comte. Thomas liked nothing better than being at la Fere, surrounded by his books and his music. In many ways it would have been best for all if Thomas had taken on the responsibility. But when my father died he was still a mere school boy. It would have been unthinkable.”

 “So, you gave up on your dreams of becoming a solider to stay there and take care of everyone?” Aramis shook his head fondly.

 “Everyone but himself.” D’Artagnan muttered sourly, offended on Athos’ behalf.

 "Weren't there an Uncle or a cousin or anyone who could help out?" Porthos wondered. To his mind noble families always seemed to have whole hosts of distant relatives coming out the woodwork any time a will was read.

 “As a matter of fact I had already given up on my ambitions of being a solider some time before,” Athos shrugged, but did not seek to explain. “Although, I must admit that a life of nothing but comfort and ease seemed like a peculiar kind of torture to me.”  He looked apologetically at his friends, knowing that they had all suffered times of hunger and hardship that he could only imagine. “I am aware that that sounds unforgivably self-indulgence.”

 “A cage is still a cage even if the bars are gilded,” Porthos reminded. He hadn’t missed the fact that Athos’ had neatly evaded his question about his relations helping out. “None of us get to choose our lot in life. It’s what you make of it that matters and you ain’t like those empty headed fops at court. I’d warrant you never have been. Not even before things went bad for you.”

 “I would imagine you were a man who took care of your tenants, were gracious to your servants, loved your brother with all your heart and quite forgot to show yourself the least bit of compassion,” Aramis looked sadly at his friend. He could just imagine a young and inexperienced Athos working late into the night as he desperately tried to juggle countless responsibilities, unwilling to ask for help in shouldering the burden lest his people lost faith in their young Comte. “Having to keep up appearances and hold yourself apart must have been a terribly lonely life for such a young man.”

 “It was not all bad, I could indulge my love of riding and buy as many volumes of poetry I chose. Thomas was a constant source of joy,” Athos smiled at some stray memory. “And Philippe helped out where he could. But they were just boys.” The one man Athos would have trusted to be his help and support had been called away on campaign. “It did not help matters that most of the household still lived in my father’s shadow and thus viewed me with disdain. That’s when I met Anne.”

 "I'm sorry but ..." D'Artagnan truly looked as if he simply could not help the interruption. "They viewed you with _disdain_? Their own Comte?"

"They had spent years in my father's service. His opinions carried more weight than my actions." Athos said tonelessly.

"Oh," d'Artagnan floundered a little. Then with one of those flashes of insight which had earned him these men respect despite his youth, he gave a rueful smile. "I'm guessing you didn't spend a lot of time with your father growing up."

Athos' head came up sharply at that, his eyes wide with surprise that d'Artagnan should come at things from that angle. He vaguely heard Aramis make some comment about  _out of the mouths of babes_ and Porthos swiftly hushing him.

“Either that or the man was a right idiot,” Porthos put in loyalty. “Not to realise that his heir was one of the very best of men.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence. But given that some beleive that imbecility is hereditary,” Athos cast an amused look at Porthos that made his eyes crinkle with the satisfaction of a job well done. “I would prefer to accept d’Artagnan’s explanation."

Athos met the Gascon's eyes, making sure d'Artagnan could see the pride in his expression, The lad would make a find tactician one day if he could draw accurate conclusions based on such slender evidence and better yet had the courage to voice them.

"My father was often away at court with his entourage, leaving only the menial staff, and those directly involved with our care behind at Le Fere."

Motherless child that he was d'Artagnan knew better than to ask after the whereabouts of the Comtesse de le Fere. No wonder Athos had been so close to Thomas if they had only had each other all those years. And how much greater the pain when he had been ripped from his life.

"Some in that household trusted you," Aramis gave Athos a shrewd look. “The ones who grew up alongside you, the young stable lad perhaps, who watched with the awe as you gentled the horse about sink its teeth in him, or the little scullery maid bent double under her heavy load of wood, grateful for your assistance.”    

"Such actions would be totally unbecoming to a Vicomte,” Athos reminded him mildly. “I was discouraged from speaking to the servants except to issue orders.”

"Yeah, right," Porthos scoffed fondly. “You didn’t get your taste for apple pastries hot right from the oven from sittin’ down to eat in that dining room of yours,” All his friends knew that Athos’ favourite treat was an apple pastry hot enough so its sweet syrup could burn your tongue. “I’ll bet you spent more time in the kitchen or stables than anywhere else growin’ up.”

“There were a few who were unswerving in their loyalty,” Athos acknowledged the point, then he ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “But I fear most were simply waiting for me to faith.”

“She had faith in you, when all seemed lost,” d’Artagnan realized with a sudden lurch of clarity. It was one of the things that had drawn  _him_ to Milady. He had been so full of grief and felt there was nothing left beyond his desire to revenge his father, but she had been so confident and exciting it made him feel that if he could have her then anything was possible. Meeting Athos’s eyes and seeing his own feelings mirrored there he realised their joint affection for Milady might actually become something to draw them together rather than push them apart. “She helped you to realize the man you could be.”  

“Yes,” Athos acknowledged the truth of that. He looked away his eyes hooded, pain written starkly across his face. “With her by my side anything felt possible.”

Porthos stood up and fetched a fresh bottle of wine from his saddlebag, using a twist of his wrist to uncork it, he handed it to Athos, standing protectively over his friend as he took a drink.

“You said at the Countess de Larroque’s trial that her whole life was a lie,” He remembered. “What exactly did you mean by that?”

Athos took another long swallow of wine, feeling its familiar warmth coarse through him. For a moment he was tempted to just lose himself in its blissful oblivion, but then he felt Aramis squeeze the hand he still held reminding him that his friends were by far the better comfort.

“When I met her she was living with a man she called her brother,” He managed. “He had taken up a post as the Curate in one of the villages on the estate. I had never known a woman like her. She was utterly intoxicating. I was captivated as much by her wit and intelligence as her beauty. After all the ‘suitable’ girls with whom my father had tried arrange a betrothal I thought I had finally found a woman I could actually spend my life with. But from the start none of it was true.”

Porthos squatted down so he could rest a hand on Athos’ shoulder. “I’m guessing the Curate weren’t really her brother, eh?” He said gently.

“Her lover,” Athos agreed flatly. “Although, I did not discover that until much later when Thomas uncovered her other crimes.”

“The two of you were happy together,”Aramis’ tone held only sympathy at what Athos had lost. “She made you happy.” 

For the first time, Athos’ throat closed entirely as those words provoked an onslaught of blissful memories. He nodded bleakly, his self-loathing for _still_ loving the woman his innocent baby brother written all over his face. 

"Hey now, none of that,” Porthos’ voice soothed, patting his shoulder. “Love’s a right precious thing, where ever you find it. Lovin’ someone ain’t ever anything to feel bad about.”

“And you were somewhat defenceless against her charms,” Aramis’ voice excused him.

“I was hardly a beardless boy,” Athos demurred. No one pointed out that he had already admitted he _had_ beenno older than d’Artagnan when he had met her. “I had done more than my share of courting. My family had been introducing me to prospective wives since my fifteenth birthday.”

“No doubt the future the Comte de la Fere was a most attractive prospect for matrimony, but what did any of those girls feel about Athos?” Aramis observed astutely. “Before you met her how many people had loved you simply for who you were?”

Athos looked away, his jaw tight, Porthos tipped his head forward so his forehead was resting on Athos’ shoulder and patted his back

Aramis knew he had touched a nerve. Thomas had adored his older brother, but Athos had always seen it as his duty to take care of him. Aramis would bet his beloved horse Thomas had _never_ seen Athos weep. The boys mother had died when Athos was far too young. Lessons and obligations had seemed to play a greater part in his youth than the kind of camaraderie and adventure Aramis had enjoyed and Aramis doubted the kind-hearted, but socially shy and awkward, boy had found many friends among the arrogant and self-centred youths at court.

“She was the first woman to capture my heart,” Athos at last, taking what appeared to be a particular interest in a tree just off to his right. “It seemed to me she was the only woman on earth who could ever truly love someone as flawed as I.”

“Oh,  _Athos_ ,” Porthos said with heart breaking affection.

“We had been courting for just a few short months when Anne suffered a bad fall when we were out riding,” Athos continued stoically. He took a ragged breath as he remembered the awful, terrible, joyous, events of that day. “I truly feared her for her life.”

“You didn’t wish to lose her,” Aramis sympathised.

“I found I could not imagine my life without her. When she recovered I asked her to be my wife. I believed myself in love and there was no one living who could forbid me. The Curate, her supposed brother, gave us his blessing and performed the marriage.”

“How long were you married before ..?” Even Porthos blunt speaking failed him.

“Just less than a year,” Athos admitted. “We had shared our joy when she announced she was with child and consoled each other when the baby was lost. We hoped that there would be others.” He pressed his lips together. 

“You would be the best of fathers,” d’Artagnan spoke with quiet sincerity, reaching out to touch Athos’ elbow. “I wish God had seen fit to bless you with children.”

"Better perhaps that he did not,” Athos said frankly. “As things turned out.”

“How did you find out that she was not who she claimed to be?” Aramis asked carefully.

“I was called away to Court. Thomas implored me not to go. There was some matter making him anxious but he would not say anything of substance until he was quite certain. To my regret I was forced to put my duty to the King before my loyalty to my brother. The visit in honour of some minor foreign princeling brought both gold and alliance and I returned home satisfied I had fulfilled my obligation as I should. But when I returned to le Fere ..”

He cursed himself for a dammed  _coward_ but even after all this time, in the company of those he loved trusted more than almost any others, he could not bring himself to speak the dreadful truth.

“Thomas was dead. His throat slit by her hand.” Aramis supplied.

“Quite,” Athos did not need to ask how Aramis knew that. He was well aware how that moment of finding his brother’s body had haunted his nightmares for the last five years. “Thomas ran music lessons for the local children. He provided tuition and instruments. When a boy showed aptitude he used the weight of our family name to find them a place. Many a lad with a musician’s hands or the voice of an angel had reason to be grateful to him for their advancement, but then one of the youngsters, who was newly arrived at le Fere, clearly recognized Anne, except that the child called her by a different name.”

“Aw  _bugger_ ,” Porthos swore fervently.

“Thomas did not want to believe it,” Athos continued. “He knew any betrayal on Anne’s part would break my heart. He had told Philippe he wanted to investigate further before sharing his concerns with me. He still imagined his sister-in-law to be the kind, loving, individual he had come to know. Thus he naively thought he could reason with her. He was sadly mistaken about that. In my absence he asked the wrong questions in the right places and came too close to the truth. She waited until he was sleeping soundly in his bed and then she slit his throat.”

D’Artagnan realized with a sudden sickening clarity why Athos had so feared seeing him in Thomas’ place. Back at the Inn he would have been no better placed to defend himself against Milady’s dagger silently stealing his life blood than Athos’ biological brother had been. He took a moment to recognise that he had been a _naive_ fool. But that was then and _this_ was now. And _now_ he was a King’s Musketeer with his three brothers, Captain Treville, and an entire regiment at his back and the soldier in him was never going to allow anyone to hurt Athos like that not _ever_ again.

“If she seeks to harm you she’ll have to go through us first.” D’Artagnan vowed before the others could react.

“ _That_ is exactly what I am afraid of.” Athos intoned gravely.

“I rather think that Porthos and I may already have made enemies of Anne, Milady, whatever you wish to call her when we thwarted her plan to have you executed by firing squad at the Chatelet,” Aramis observed.

“And things aren’t half as bad as for d’Artagnan as they might seem,” Porthos soothed. “With those Red Guards in the alley it’s only her word against his and you and Aramis already arranged things so it looked like they killed each other in a fight. The murder at the Inn is a mite more difficult since d’Artagnan went and made himself an accessory and I’m guessin’ there were witnesses?” He looked at the Gascon.

“The woman who kept the Inn and a few other guests.” D’Artagnan was forced to admit. “Although, I never actually told her my name.”  

“That’s something at least,” Aramis flashed him a swift approving look. “Given that we can produce two witnesses to her arson and attempted murder at la Fere it’s unlikely she will try to see you hung for the murder at the Inn.”

“And here I was thinking she actually liked me.” D’Artagnan managed slightly hollowly.

“Perhaps she does,” Athos offered unexpectedly, causing all three of his friends to look at him in surprise. He shrugged a little self-conciously, there were certainly enough similarities between his younger self and d’Artagnan to evoke memories of their love in her. He paused, before delivering the stark truth. “Unfortunately, that does not mean she will not destroy you and all you love if it serves her purposes.”


	23. Camping 2

In the silence that followed Athos’ proclamation Aramis huffed out a small sigh and said in what d’Artagnan had come to think of as his ‘physician’s’ voice.

“I think that's quite enough for one night. Our problems will still be here tomorrow and we will all face them with much stouter hearts if we have had a good night’s rest.”

“Is that so?” Athos’ tipped his head on one side, an amused look in his eyes at the note of command in Aramis’ voice.

“S’right enough,” Porthos added his support. “Even in the very worst of times, things always seem a little brighter come the morning.”

“Have we ever steered you wrong?” Aramis asked brazenly, as he rose to his feet and stretched, making his back crack, before he reached down to help Athos to his feet.

“Must I remind you again of that incident in Rouen?” Athos challenged mildly, even as he gripped Aramis’ hand and allowed the other man to pull him to his feet. “I was particularly fond of that hat.”

“You’ll forgive me if I was rather more invested in keeping your head on your shoulders,” Aramis reminded him as he set about unbuckling Athos’ weapons, carefully laying his pistol aside and placing his sword where it would be within reach as Athos slept. When Porthos’ appeared at his shoulder, holding a blue boat cloak, Aramis’ took it with a grateful nod and used a well-practiced flick of his wrist to furl it out, before wrapping it around Athos’ shoulders, carefully tying it off, as if the knot itself could keep his brother from any further harm.

Then he paused and, with eyes shining with love, laid a hand on Athos’ cheek, smiling with such heartrending  _pride_ at his courage at telling his story, that d’Artagnan felt his own eyes fill with tears. Bravely Athos mustered a smile of his own as he reached up to cover Aramis’ hand. Words were not necessary between them as Aramis used his free hand to gently sweep Athos’ curls off his forehead, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his brow.  As he pulled back he turned Athos by his shoulders and gave him a little shove towards where Porthos had laid out their blankets, adopting the brisk, cheery, tones of a bustling nursemaid.

“There now, off to bed with you.”

At first it had confused d’Artagnan that someone with Athos’ natural authority and inclination to lead would ever allow the others to take control. Even more so, that he would meekly submit to their attentions, especially once when he discovered how uncomfortable servants made him. It had taken him some time to understand that Athos acknowledged his friends’ need to see to his welfare and even longer to appreciate how much Athos relied on their soft smiles and gentle touches to keep his own demons at bay.

Or indeed just how tender their Lieutenant’s heart was under that stoic exterior.

_Circumstances had dictated that the four of them were sharing one room at the Inn. Which would not have been quite so bad except the room was barely big enough for two normal people, never mind four musketeers, their saddle bags and all their weapons. The room itself was furnished with nothing more than a narrow bed and a single chair. There was no fireplace and the window rattled in its frame as the draught whistled through. Still, they had tried valiantly to make the best of things. Aramis had stripped Porthos_ _’_ _to his shirt and braies, bathed him with the kettle of warm water fetched by the Inn keeper_ _’_ _s son, before tucking him into the only bed, piling on their three blue Musketeer cloaks and d_ _’_ _Artagnan_ _’_ _s shyly offered leather cloak to augment the single threadbare blanket._

_After the hot water the Inn keeper_ _’_ _s son brought up a few bottles of a passable red wine, a thick stew that at least had more meat than gristle, a plate of bread, no older than the day before yesterday, and best of all, some thin broth which Aramis had persuaded, cajoled and forced into their invalid._

_Looking back d_ _’_ _Artagnan blushed at his naivety. At the time he had simply assumed that despite the very obvious down at heel nature of their accommodations, they had received preferential treatment simply because his companions were King_ _’_ _s Musketeers. It was only afterwards he had worked out that Athos had dipped into his own purse to see to it that Porthos_ _’_ _sickroom had every possible comfort._

_If he was honest with himself, d_ _’_ _Artagnan had been more than a little in awe of Athos back then, if not slightly afraid of having that look of cool disdain or that rapier dry wit, which he had seen used with such aplomb against their enemies, levied in his direction. So, he had done his utmost to be helpful, taking the kettle back down to the kitchen, persuading the Inn Keeper_ _’_ _s daughter to set some stones to heat by the fire, earning a grateful look from Aramis as he wrapped them in his shirt and pressed them close to Porthos_ _’_ _shivering side._

_After that he had sat on the floor, with his back to the wall, resting his head against the cool plaster, trying to keep out of the way as he pretended to sleep. He had watched from under his lids as Aramis started to pace repeatedly back and forth, his boots clicking on the floor, ten paces to cross the room, ten paces to return, occasionally tugging at his hair, as he cast anxious looks at the sweat soaked figure in the bed as Porthos tossed and turned in the harsh grip of fever, his breath coming in labored gasps. D'Artagnan could only sympathise, Aramis didn't do well with any kind of forced inactivity, having to watch his friend suffer, without any further means to alleviate his discomfort, must be a particular kind of torture for him._

_Sat on the only chair, a glass of wine in his hand, Athos_ _’_ _eyes had narrowed sharply at the repeated movement and d_ _’_ _Artagnan felt sure he had reached the end of his patience. All of them, but especially Porthos, needed proper rest and that wasn't going to happen with Aramis constantly wearing out the floor boards. When Athos shifted in his seat d'Artagnan was certain he was about to bark some sort of order or even a stinging reprimand to get Aramis to keep still. Just thinking about being spoken to that way, especially in front of others, made d_ _’_ _Artagnan squirm with embarrassment for his new friend. Instead, Athos had risen silently to his feet and crossed over to where their saddlebags were piled in the corner. It took him only a moment to locate what he was looking for and step into Aramis_ _’_ _orbit._

_“_ _Here._ _”_ _He offered._

_Aramis somehow managed to stop dead, just before he barrelled straight into Athos_ _’_ _s chest. D_ _’_ _Artagnan saw the way his eyes latched onto the small object held in Athos hands, before he lifted his gaze to look at him, his expression more vulnerable than d_ _’_ _Artagnan had ever seen. Athos simply waited, patiently holding out the leather bound book. D_ _’_ _Artagnan registered with some surprise how his expression had softened with understanding._

_“_ _Sit with him a while._ _”_ _Athos suggested with infinite kindness._

_Aramis reached out and clutched the book tightly with both hands as if it was some kind of talisman. The two Musketeers looked at each other in one of those long moments of silent communication, that d'Artagnan had despaired of ever understanding, Porthos_ _’_ _harsh breathing the only sound in the room._

_“_ _He likes it when I read to him._ _”_ _Aramis managed._

_“_ _I know._ _”_ _Athos inclined his head gently._

_Aramis lifted it up the precious volume to inspect the spine and his brow furrowed, instantly sounding much more like himself._

_“_ _Le Morte d_ _’_ _Arthur? Athos, my friend, why do you even have a copy of this? You hate all this flowery language and tales of romantic chivalry. As I recall you said it was all a pile of horse .._ _”_

_“_ _Porthos likes it,_ _”_ _Athos cut him off, looking slightly awkward._ _“_ _I have been reading it to him as our duties allow. You will see where the page is marked._ _”_

_“_ _So it is,_ _”_ _Aramis looked up from the tome to give Athos an impossibly tender look._ _“_ _Is there no end to the ways you will find to show us we are loved?_ _”_

_“_ _Idiots the pair of you,_ _”_ _Athos huffed, without the least bit of heat._ _“_ _I don_ _’_ _t know why I put up with either of you._ _”_

_D’Artagnan watched as Aramis made his way over to the bed and perched on the edge, he was just able to make out the words as he started_ _speaking quietly to Porthos about how Athos had told him he liked this and that he was going to read it to him and that would help him settle down and get the sleep he needed now wouldn't it?_

_D'Artagnan wondered if Aramis realized how the tension in his own shoulders melted away as he started to read, pausing only to kick off his boots and lift his stocking feet up onto the bed. Wrapping an arm around Porthos shoulders he tugged him in close and they continued like that for a while, with Porthos_ _’_ _head resting contentedly on Aramis_ _’_ _chest until the inevitable happened and Aramis let the book slip from his lifeless fingers as he too fell asleep. Athos had clearly been waiting for exactly that, as he instantly stood up and silently crossed the room. Which what seemed like the ease of long practice he rolled Aramis a little so he could pull the bed covers out from under him and tuck them around his shoulders, all without waking him. Then he took a moment to feel Porthos' brow and stroke Aramis' hair before rescuing the book from the floor where it had fallen. Looking at his expression as he surveyed the two men curled up together, d'Artagnan was ashamed for believing that Athos had ever been thinking of orders or reprimands when his face shone with such love and protectiveness for his brothers._

_"You should follow their example."_

_D'Artagnan started slightly when he realised Athos was suddenly right in front of him, fixing him with a knowing look._

_"Um,"_ _Artagnan stuttered, made more than a little awkward at having witnessed such an intimate, some might say private, moment between the three inseparables._

_When Athos_ _’_ _brow furrowed as he gazed down upon him, d_ _’_ _Artagnan gathered his courage to make his apologies but before he could find the words Athos had reached behind him and retrieved his own blue boat cloak from the bed._

_"You're shivering." Athos explained, as d'Artagnan accepted the proffered garment with a quizzical look._

_D'Artagnan couldn't help but be touched by the gesture. The soft blue material felt wonderful in his hands and would be far more comfortable and infinitely warmer than his own stiff and worn leather cloak._

_"But what about ....?" D'Artagnan began._

_"Porthos will be warmed through by now and besides Aramis makes a more than serviceable hot water bottle." Athos sought to ally his concerns, as he settled back into the chair._

_"Actually," d'Artagnan bit his lip, not wishing to directly contradict Athos, but he had already worked all that out for himself. "I only meant .. You must be cold too."_

_"Oh'" Athos blinked, looking slightly surprised and then touched that d'Artagnan would think to worry about him. "There is no need to concern yourself I rarely feel the cold. Aramis says it_ _’_ _s because the wine heats my blood."_

_Now it was d'Artagnan's turn to frown as he took in the two empty bottles already on the floor even as Athos opened a third. He knew Porthos had taken none and he and Aramis had had only a glass apiece. Granted they would not be returning riding on to Paris until Porthos was better but still it was unusual for Athos to drink_ so  _heavily during a mission._

_"If you were enjoying the story I could continue for a while?"  Athos spoke suddenly._

_D'Artagnan's first instinct was to bridle at the very idea of being treated like a child, especially by this man whom he was so desperate to impress. But then he noted the way Athos' fingers were gripping his wine glass, his knuckles white as he as he swallowed down half of the wine in one go, before determinedly refilling it, Porthos_ _’_ _labored, painful, breaths the only sound in the air around them._

_Perhaps Aramis was not the only one who needed a distraction from his worry._

_"A foolish idea," Athos brusquely retracted the offer when d_ _’_ _Artagnan was silent too long. He went to set the book aside._ _“_ _You are neither a child nor an invalid to be read to._ _”_

_"No," d''Artagnan hastily spoke up._ _“_ _I_ _’_ _d like that,_ _”_ _Searching around for an argument which would dispel his earlier reluctance he decided on the simple truth of it._ _“_ _My father used to read to me on winter evenings. Left to myself I could never sit still long enough to finish a book but I could listen to his voice for hours. I rather miss that._ _”_

_"Then I shall be happy to oblige," Athos was imbued with a sense of purpose as he opened the small volume and in a pleasant, even, timbre, began to read. As d'Artagnan settled down under Athos' cloak, breathing in the comforting scent of the man, he felt secretly proud that he had been able to ease his mentor_ _’_ _s burden just a little._

"I rather fear sleep will elude me," Athos admitted now.

He did not need to explain. They all knew how frequently he was haunted by nightmares of his brother's death and his wife's betrayal.

"Eh now," Porthos tried to be positive. "It's always hard getting things off your chest. But it's all that bottling it up that causes them nightmares. Maybe you'll sleep better now, dream of happy times."

Athos shot him a stricken look and d'Artagnan realised that the happy times were probably the most painful to relive, when Thomas had still been alive and Athos had believed himself worthy of love.

"Just lie down and try to rest," Aramis encouraged. "Porthos will settle at your back. I will probably cling to you like a limpet and d'Artagnan here will be right there where you can see him."

"We should set a watch," Athos reminded them all reluctantly.

D'Artagnan winced. He knew Athos was right. It was never wise to take chances when camping out in the woods. But their leader already looked dead on his feet. Aramis was no better and both he and Porthos had spent days riding across country, sick with worry for their friends. They all needed their rest.

"I've got a better idea," Porthos grinned, as he went to his saddlebag and rummaged around in his saddle bag and produced a length of rope. “I packed this because I thought we might have to scale the walls of the convent. But I can think of a better use for it.”

Athos inclined his head in silent permission and Aramis’ weary face lit up with pure delight.

"Porthos my friend you are truly a marvel among men.”

"Um,” d’Artagnan wondered. “What?”

 

* * *

Much later d’Artagnan wondered what had woken him. Around him the forest seemed dark and silent, apart from the usual soft sounds of the horses and the occasional hoot of an owl. Off to one side he could hear Porthos snoring loudly and he briefly wondered if that was what had disturbed his sleep. Until he realized it was due to his bladder’s rather pressing need to make water. Casting aside his blanket he stumbled to his feet, grateful in his half-awake state for the full moon to light his way.

Scrubbing at his eyes he headed into the forest, only remembering at the last second to step over the trip wire Porthos had strung between three trees to avoid setting a watch. Not wishing to disturb his brothers’ much needed rest he walked rather further than usual before picking out a large sturdy trunk and was just reaching down to unlace his breeches when he heard voices, very _familiar_ voices on the other side and froze in dismay.

“Your duty was to protect the person of the Queen. If anything you were somewhat over-zealous in your interpretation of those orders.” Athos’ measured tones said dryly.

“And if Gallagher had chosen to launch another of his stealth attacks?” Aramis was not remotely amused by the wry observation. “You could have been killed before I even got my breeches back on.”

Half asleep and with his mind focused on taking care of business d’Artagnan had assumed that Athos and Aramis were still sleeping on Porthos’ other side. Now he realised he had caught the two of them in the middle of what was obviously a _very_ private conversation. It would be an unpardonable breech of privacy to be caught eavesdropping. Acting on instinct he tried to back away but the crunch of twigs underfoot suddenly sounded far too loud in the sudden lull of conversation. So he resorted to pulling a variety of increasingly tortuous faces, in the hope that his brothers would either swiftly end their discussion, or at least move a little further away, so he could attend to his increasingly _pressing_ need.

“As I recall a lack of attire did not hinder you when we were ambushed by that river in Normandy,” Athos recalled fondly. “And if the expressions on the faces of our adversaries as you charged at them brandishing your sword with not a stitch on were any indication, perhaps we should employ that tactic rather more often.”

D’Artagnan had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the image of Aramis racing into the fray as naked as the day he was born. He fully expected his brother to make some bawdy quip about intimidating the enemy with his significant prowess, but the subdued response that came sounded nothing like the usually confident Musketeer.

“It seems that God has deemed I must now be haunted by nightmares of sending my friends to the scaffold as well as Savoy,” Aramis sounded uncharacteristically _defeated_. “Perhaps, it is I who should resign my commission and atone for my many sins by making a return to the Church.”

“You don’t mean that.” Athos sounded as shocked as d’Artagnan felt.

Of all of them Aramis was the one most suited to the life of a soldier. A man who lived life with such passion and fervor would surely never be content with the life of a country pastor. Unable to restrain himself, d’Artagnan risked peering around the tree trunk to see how Athos would talk him out of such nonsense.

The two men were sitting side by side on a large tree trunk, Aramis, his hair sticking out wildly in all directions, was leaning heavily into Athos’ side, a bottle of wine clutched tightly in one hand. Athos had an arm around his shoulders, one elegant hand tangled in those wayward curls.

_“_ _Oh_ _”_ , d’Artagnan realized, correctly interpreting the body language.  _“_ _Nightmare._ _”_

For all his bonhomie and rakish air of devil may care, Aramis was perhaps the most sensitive of them all. D’Artagnan remembered the first time he had seen him in the throes of a nightmare. How he had thrashed about on the ground, trying to fight off unseen adversaries, crying out piteously for his dead brothers, as cold tears streamed down his face. He had looked on helplessly as Porthos had gathered Aramis in his arms and rocked him as tenderly as a mother with a distraught child. On another occasion he had seen Athos’ sharp gaze narrow as the snow had slowly fallen and Aramis’ anxiety levels had gradually risen. That night Athos had silently sat sentry over Aramis as he slept, rousing him with a gentle hand to the shoulder as soon as his rest became disturbed, offering the solace of wine, the warmth of a living body beside him and his steady but undemanding company, until Aramis fell back into a peaceful sleep, his head pillowed on Athos’ shoulder and his mouth lolling open.

“My retiring from the world would be a means to distance you all from my folly,” Aramis insisted. “If I were cloistered in some minor Abbey there would be far less chance of this matter coming to light than if I were to persevere in the service of their Majesties.”   

“’Mis’” Athos sounded very much the loving elder brother counselling his wayward younger sibling. “You could hardly have slept with the Queen if she were not entirely willing.”

_‘_ _Mis?_ D’Artagnan blinked. He had heard Porthos employ the nickname from time to time, usually when he wasn’t entirely sober, but this was the first time he had heard Athos use it.

And then he realized what  _else_ Athos has said.

“I was hardly a vestal virgin, hook winked into something beyond my knowledge and experience,” Aramis mocked himself slightly, as he took a long drink of wine from the bottle. “Porthos will attest to the fact that I had already imagined the unthinkable. Then I tumbled all too willingly into her bed without the least consideration that I was placing a noose around your neck or hers.”

“You did not set out to seduce her,” Athos pointed out. “She was the one who viewed your shared loss over your unborn children as something that made you equals, when in fact such a thing can never be.”

“Her longing to be a mother was like an open wound,” Aramis remarked as he rubbed a tired hand across his face. “I think it even out weighted her ultimate duty as a Queen.”

Suddenly he went  _very_ still.

“You don’t think ..?” He managed in a slightly strangled tone.

Athos had  _really_ hoped they would not need to have  _this_ conversation. As diligently as he took the obligations of being an elder brother nothing had  _ever_ prepared him for this. But his love for Aramis outweighed any mortification he might feel. Taking the wine bottle from Aramis’ lax fingers he took a long swallow, before asking the obvious question.

“Were you careful?”

Aramis had had enough romantic liaisons with the best blood of Paris to know that there were ways and means of avoiding conception if the parties involved so desired. Some high born women were delighted to pass the offspring of their viral young lovers as heir to their much older husband’s lands and titles. Others knew that the slightest sniff of impropriety would mean their downfall.

“I was rather overwrought, I did not think of it,” Aramis blinked hard, as his emotions threatened to overwhelm him. Suddenly he sounded quite bereft. “Do you think that is all I was to her? A means to secure an heir by any means possible?”

He knew he had seen his own grief at the loss of a child, mirrored in her eyes. But Anne’s position would never be assured until she had given France a male heir. And so far their young King had been sadly lacking in that department. A Musketeer, especially one both brave and skilled, might well have seemed a far more attractive proposition to father a child. 

“Hardly  _any_ means,” Athos said as dryly as d’Artagnan had ever heard. “She had a whole regiment to choose from, after all.” 

At his words, Aramis’ eyes first widened in shock and surprise and then he gave a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“She _did_ choose me didn’t she?” Aramis managed a wobbly smile. Then his face fell again. “Although, given that Isabelle’s child did not thrive I can claim no particular advantage in that area.”

Athos huffed out a visible sigh. Aramis faced nothing but pain. Either the pregnancy would fail and he would face the loss of another baby or the Queen would bear a child that his brother could never acknowledge as his own.

“Let us not go borrowing trouble,” Part of Athos thought it would be for the best if nothing came of this. It would certainly be safer for them all if that particular union did not bear fruit. But the other part could not deny Aramis what he clearly so desired. “Whatever happens, you will not be alone. You do not get to decide whether or not you are loved either.” Athos reminded him.

“No,” Aramis finally managed a genuine smile. “I suppose I don’t.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re our brother and we love you,” Porthos spoke up as he appeared out of the trees and plonked himself unceremoniously down on the tree trunk on Aramis’ other side, holding out his hand for the wine bottle. With a wry look Athos passed it across, watching as Porthos drank deeply, smacking his lips appreciatively, before he fixed them both with a concerned look. “S’everything all right now? I got a bit worried when I woke up and I was all alone.”

_Oh no_ , d’Artagnan froze in place, flattening himself against the tree trunk, as if that might help him avoid detection. He was horrified at the idea that his friends might think he had been deliberately eavesdropping.

“You were alone?” Athos’ brow was already creasing into a concerned frown, as he straightened up. “Where’s d’Artagnan?”

“I thought he must be with you two, his saddle and his sword are both still there,” An edge of concern crept into Porthos’ voice as he frowned. “He wouldn’t have just wandered off. He gave me his word he’d come back to Paris with us and we all know how seriously the whelp takes his honour.”

“And he would never deliberately worry us like this,” Aramis was already on his feet, looking agitated. “Something must have happened. We need to find him and quickly.”

That did it. To hear all of his brothers so worried on his behalf was more than d’Artagnan could bear. He could not allow them to go traipsing through the dangers of the forest at night for no reason, no matter what the cost to himself.      

“My apologies,” d’Artagnan stepped forward, knowing that his face was burning with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was merely ..”

“Are you alright?” Athos stepped forward, cutting across his apology as if of no account as he detected a flash of genuine discomfort in the boy’s expression and his protective nature surged to the fore. “Where are you injured?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” d’Artagnan sucked in a slightly ragged breath, which just caused the little furrow in Porthos brow to deepen. “Honestly, I was ..”

“Fine, is it?” Porthos scoffed. “You’d say that if you’d been run right through.”

“If this is because of our recent quarrel,” Aramis’ hands fluttered by his side, as if anxious to start tugging at d’Artagnan’s clothing to bodily search him for some concealed injury. “I understand you may not wish me to tend to you. But Athos or Porthos have proven more than acceptable substitutes and I would gladly stand aside rather than see you suffer.”

“No, not at all, it isn’t that,” d’Artagnan hastened to assure. “I swear it.”

“Then you’ll let me help you?” Aramis’ stepped forward, his eagerness to be of assistance only matched by the depth of his concern, a look d’Artagnan realised with a pang was mirrored on the watching faces of Athos and Porthos.

“Um,” d’Artagnan could not help but squirm a little. As glad he was not to have incurred his brothers’ disapproval for eavesdropping right now he just wished the forest floor would open and swallow him up. “Honestly, it’s not what you think. I was just on my way to ..”

He had to break off and concentrate very hard on _not_ embarrassing himself as a very pressing, uncomfortable and _immediate_ need made itself known. Therefore he could not help the look of _agony_ that passed across his face.

“You _are_ hurt,” Suddenly Athos was beside him. His hand reached out as if to touch him, but then halted in mid-air as if he was afraid to injure him further. “Tell me what ails you. Now.”

Much as Athos’ body language and facial expression was that of a concerned older brother, his voice was a tone of pure command. One that d’Artagnan could never dream of disobeying.

“I got up because I needed to make water,” He blurted feeling _utterly_ mortified. “I was just putting some distance between me and the campsite while I looked for a suitable tree and then I heard voices and I didn’t want you to think I was listening so I waited for you to move away, but you didn’t.”

“I see.” Athos managed, deadpan.

Aramis’ mouth was twitching in what looked suspiciously like amusement and d’Artagnan could _feel_ his ears burning.

“You walked all this way just because you needed a piss?” Porthos said bluntly. “This place is full of trees. What was wrong with any of them?”

“I don’t know,” Now d’Artagnan really was squirming. “I didn’t want to wake anyone.”

“Is your present discomfort merely due to embarrassment?” Athos asked. “Or are we detaining you?”

“Detaining.” D’Artagnan squeaked.

“Then by all means ..”

Athos waved a hand in permission and d’Artagnan stepped gratefully back behind the trunk of his chosen tree and achieved the blessed relief he needed. Once he was done he swiftly rearranged his clothing and gave a rather self- conscious tug at his doublet and stepped back out into the clearing.

“So,” Aramis cast a swift look at Athos, receiving a small nod of permission before returning his attention to d’Artagnan. “You overheard our discussion?”

“I’m sorry.” D’Artagnan did not know what else to say. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

“You don’t seem particularly shocked.” Aramis tipped his head on one side.

“Um, no, not really,” D’Artagnan realised the other man had all but forgotten what he had already said about treason the in the heat of his argument with Athos. He shrugged lightly. “I know too well what it is to love what you cannot have."

“Of course you do,” Aramis’ expression twisted with a mixture of sympathy and respect. Behind him he felt Athos and Porthos exchange one of those glances which said the young Gascon had once again exceeded their expectations. “I am sorry to drag you into my troubles also.”

“You are my brother,” d’Artagnan reminded him. “Your troubles are mine just as you have shared my burdens since my father died.”

When the three musketeers said nothing d’Artagnan feared that perhaps he had said or done the wrong thing. Then Porthos reached out his hand, to be covered by Aramis’ then they looked expectantly at d’Artagnan and his stomach flipped as he comprehended what they intended. Slightly nervously d’Artagnan put his hand on top of Aramis’ and found it swiftly covered by Athos' gloved hand, placing d'Artaganan firmly at the centre of their brotherhood.

“All for one ..” Athos intoned.

“And one for all.” They all chorused.

“And now we’ve got that straight, can we please all go back to bed?” Porthos said plaintively, cutting through the solemnity of the moment and restoring some much needed normality. “We’re still due at the Palace tomorrow and some of us need our beauty sleep.”

D’Artagnan knew he was grinning like a loon all the way back to their campsite. He had heard many tales of musketeers swearing their fealty to one other before but this was the first time he had been included in the ritual. The way that Porthos trapped him in a friendly headlock and mussed his hair with his knuckles, handing him off to Aramis who wrapped a companionable arm around his shoulder and steered him safely over the trip wire before leading him to the spot where his blankets lay spoke of fraternity and family. As d’Artagnan settled down to sleep he heard Athos adding an extra log to the fire and then felt him tucking one of the horse blankets, still holding traces of the animal’s own warmth, around his shoulders, knowing that the young Gascon keenly felt the cold of a northern winter.

All of it spoke of fraternity, family,  _belonging_ .

It was only as he was on the very cusp of sleep, in that single moment between alertness and oblivion, that he remembered something  _else_ Aramis had said to Athos during their argument.

_Porthos and I are your sworn brothers_ .

With the pauldron resting comfortably on his shoulder and the warmth of their shared oath still clear in his memory he rested safe and secure in the knowledge that he was as much a musketeer as any of them.

So, what  _exactly_ was it that he needed to do to be included in that oath of brotherhood?


	24. Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re telling me,” The Captain lent back in his chair as he pinned d’Artagnan with a look. “You knew this woman was a murderer and an assassin, and yet you still accepted her patronage, leaving you beholden to her, rather than rely on the willing assistance of your friends.”

D'Artagnan thought his jaw would break with the effort of smiling politely as the King led the applause for the Cardinal for his part in uncovering Mellendorf’s plot. As they withdrew he was so busy fuming at the idea that the very man who had orchestrated the attempt on the Queen’s life should be hailed as her deliverer that at first he did not realise that Athos had remained behind.        

“What’s he thinkin’?” Porthos scowled, from the small ante-chamber where they could just hear his smooth tones conversing with Richelieu but not what was actually being said. “It’s too early to be showin’ our hand.”  

“You know Athos,” Aramis sighed. “His honour is involved. He’s going to take this very personally.”

“But Milady’s attack on the Queen wasn't anything to do with her relationship with Athos." d'Artagnan protested. ”Or any of her crimes, he thought she was  _dead_ . He can’t be held responsible for her actions.”

He had been rather hoping that once they had made their report to Treville, the Captain would deploy some other company of Musketeers to pursue Milady on behalf of the Crown. And if he felt too close to her to be the one to see her bring her to justice, to be the cause of a placing a noose around  that same neck that he had kissed and caressed, how much worse must that be for Athos?

“Athos ain’t gonna see it like that,” Porthos shook his head. “He blames himself for making her what she’s become. He’ll want to see this through to the end.” He shot a meaningful look at Aramis. “He’s gonna need careful watching.”

“I know,” Aramis ran a hand through his hair. Athos had not been able to stay and see his wife’s execution through the last time. Five years of torturing himself over her death would not make it any easier. “You two go along. I’ll wait for him.”

“Don’t be too far behind us,” Porthos warned. “Treville’s gonna want answers.”

“Do we have to tell him everything?” d’Artagnan worried at his lip.

“Treville is apparently rather well acquainted with the power of Milady’s allure,” Aramis revealed. “He may be more understanding that you think.”

“He will?” d’Artagnan blinked.

“He what?” Porthos frowned.

“Something Athos said last night. It would seem that the good Captain was a guest at Athos’ wedding,” Aramis surprised them. “He can hardly rebuke you for succumbing to her charms without condemning Athos also. It’s more likely that he blames himself for not looking a little closer into her background and averting the devastation that she wrought on his life.” 

“Aw hell,” Porthos’ face twisted with sympathy. They all knew Treville had a particularly soft spot for Athos. More than likely he would have swallowed any possible objections at the unsuitability of the marriage in the simple hope that she would make him happy. “S’a right mess, is what it is.”

“Maybe we should all stay?” d’Artagnan suggested.

“S’nice thought, but until your poker face improves, probably best to keep you as far from the Cardinal as possible,” Porthos said kindly. “Wear your heart on your sleeve, you do.”

D’Aratgnan opened his mouth to protest, but Porthos seized him by the shoulders and propelled him forwards. He knew d’Artagnan meant well but Athos would need someone to ground  _him_ before he was able to deal with the boy’s worries. Aramis took it as a small victory that when he emerged Athos did not seem remotely surprised to see him waiting for him, leaning up against the wall as casually as if he was loitering in the market.

“Was that wise?” Aramis asked mildly, looking up from where he was cleaning his fingernails with his knife. “Baiting the Cardinal like that?”

“Probably not,” Athos responded calmly. Then his lips quirked with a hint of that devilish nature that Aramis so loved in him. “But it was quite satisfying.”

“ _Athos._ ” Aramis rolled his eyes.

“And it will do no harm for his Eminence to understand that we suspect his connection to the plot,” Athos continued more seriously. “It will no doubt make him all the more willing to offer up Anne if he thinks it will save him.”

“Or,” Aramis pushed off the wall and fell into step beside him as they made their way down the corridor. “He might just seek another solution to the problem, one that ends in your death.”

“As I recall you and Porthos with d’Artagnan’s more than able assistance were quite adept at foiling his plot last time,” Athos allowed fondly. “I have no doubt you will do so again if the need arises.”

Athos suddenly stopped, all colour draining from his face as he started fixedly at something just beyond Aramis’ shoulder. The sharpshooter spun around on his heel, instinctively drawing his pistol and placing himself between Athos and what it was had shaken him so badly. He caught a flash of blue skirt and a flick of auburn hair out of the corner of his eye and then she was gone. Swearing softly Aramis turned back to Athos, who looked right through him as if he wasn’t there, his breath coming in harsh gasps. Pressing a hand against his chest Aramis was alarmed at how fast Athos’ heart was racing.

“Athos, look at me,” He commanded, placing Athos’ hand against his own chest. “Breathe with me.”

Athos blinked, as Aramis’ hand squeezed his own, perhaps a little too tightly, coming back to himself sufficiently to feel the warm thrum of his friend’s heart under his hand. Even so, it took longer than Aramis would have liked before Athos managed to return his breathing to normal, bringing his other hand up patting Aramis’ shoulder absently, signalling that he was himself again.

“Are you back with me now?” Aramis ventured, cupping the back of his neck and squeezing gently, as he searched Athos’ expression.

“It would seem so,” Athos managed, sagging slightly against the wall, feeling as spent as if he had battled a dozen opponents. “My apologies, I was taken .. somewhat unawares.”

“It is quite understandable, none of us would have anticipated that she would be so brazen,” Aramis sighed, drawing Athos’ head down onto his shoulder, feeling his body sag weakly with relief. He wondered if Athos knew how close he had come to stopping his heart stone dead, deliberately trying not to think about that he ran his hand through Athos’ hair. “I don’t suppose it would do me the least bit of good to suggest that a short period of leave might be in order? We’re all had a hard time of things of late, the boy especially. We could all use a chance to catch our breath.” 

“I am neither wounded nor incapable of performing my duties,” Athos huffed as he forced himself to straighten up. “And using d’Artagnan, who is perhaps the most resilient of us all, to try and influence my behaviour is beneath you.”

“Not if it had worked,” Aramis shrugged lightly, before his tone turned more serious.  “Have you considered what you will tell Treville?

“I think,” Athos sighed heavily, resigning himself to the fact of the matter. “That only the truth will suffice.”

* * *

Treville listened calmly to their report, asking only occasional questions. If Athos faltered, Aramis or Porthos seamlessly took up the tale. Displaying a maturity beyond his years d’Artagnan held his peace unless he was directly addressed. Aramis rather suspected that Porthos had had a hand in that, counselling the lad not to borrow trouble. From Treville’s expression he was already in quite enough of that.

“You’re telling me,” The Captain lent back in his chair as he pinned d’Artagnan with a look. “You knew this woman was a murderer and an assassin, and yet you still accepted her patronage, leaving you beholden to her, rather than rely on the willing assistance of your friends.”

Aramis winced. He hadn’t thought about _that_ part.

D’Artagnanan knew the rebuke was no more than he deserved.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Athos step forward to defend him, only to be restrained by Porthos’ hand on his arm as he spoke quietly in his ear. Athos frowned slightly but then he stilled and gave d’Artagnan a small nod, allowing him to speak for himself.

Buoyed by his mentor’s faith in him, d’Artagnan stood a little straighter in the face of Treville’s ire.

“At first, I was flattered by her attentions and too willing to forgive the actions of a woman where I would have judged a man,” He made a rueful face but he knew it had to be said. “And, I was only too glad to accept whatever patronage she offered. By then my heart already belonged to Constance. But it seemed like Milady took pleasure in leaving me little gifts and tokens and I figured if she could afford it .. I was afraid that I would lose the respect of my friends if I had to rely too heavily upon their charity.”

He saw Athos stiffen and Aramis’ jaw drop open, even Treville sat forward, his fingers steeping together and his eye brows coming together as he realised where this was going.

“Now tell ‘em the rest of it.”

D’Artagnan looked across at Porthos but saw only encouragement. The man’s steady support made him feel ashamed of his youthful pride. 

“Even before LaBarge, the farm was doing badly. One of the reasons my father had come to Paris to complain about the taxes was because we were struggling to make ends meet. Father refused to let the workers and their families go hungry so he used what savings we had to pay their wages.”

“I thought you said you received an income each month from the farm.” Aramis protested.

“I did,” D’Artagnan felt himself blush. “What I didn’t tell you all was that it was a mere pittance. Not nearly enough to meet my expenses in Paris.”

“But you always had money in your purse.” Athos frowned.

 “I sold things,” d’Artagnan admitted. “My father’s horse and tack fetched enough for me to get by for a while. Since I was using my father’s sword I got a decent price for my own. ”

“An’ when things got proper difficult?” Porthos pressed.

“I sold my father’s pocket watch. It had been my Grandfather’s. But it was either that or the take food out of our farmhands mouths. I hoped that by becoming a Musketeer I could earn enough to keep the farm running, even if it was at a loss.”

“An act which I am sure your father would have approved of,” Athos unexpectedly spoke up, his tone soft with pride. When d’Artagnan looked at him, his eyes wide and vulnerable, Athos reached out to touch him lightly on the shoulder. “And no loving father would begrudge you the chance to employ any means possible to follow your dreams.” 

Treville’s snort of disgust seemed entirely out of place with the tender sentiment. But Athos merely rolled his eyes at him.

“I believe I did say “loving” therefore my own father hardly qualifies.” Athos shrugged.

“You’re quite certain that it was Anne who engaged Gallagher?” Treville got back to the business in hand ignoring the shocked looked which passed between Aramis and Porthos at Athos’ rare mention of his father.

“Under orders from the Cardinal,” Athos inclined his head. “Yes.”

“Then we need to think carefully about how we approach this,” Treville mused. “Richelieu clearly believes that he was acting in the best interests of France.  But we’ll need more than your word against his to influence the King.”

“Perhaps it ain’t the King we need to influence.” Porthos spoke up. “It was Her Majesty that Gallagher targeted after all.”   

“That could actually work,” Aramis approved. “The only person who has more influence over Louis than the Cardinal, or your good-self Captain, is the Queen. I am sure we could persuade her to look sympathetically on our endeavours.”

“Louis is it now?” Porthos murmured.

“I still stay that It would be better and safer for all if I do as I always intended and return to le Fere,” Athos insisted. “Anne won’t be able to resist following me there, I can finish what I started and that will be an end to it.”

“You really think you could kill the mother of your child?” Porthos looked distressed.

“Athos, there has to be a better way,” Aramis said gently. “Is it so hard to let those who love you share your burden?”

“I ..,” Athos faltered. “I would never wish that others, especially those I care for, would suffer for my sake.”

“And we do not suffer when you are hurting?” Treville demanded. “God’s teeth, Athos, I have spent the five years trying to make amends for not being there when you needed me most. Do _not_ ask me to do that again.”

Athos looked visibly shocked at the heartfelt admission.

“Your first duty was to King and Country.  I understood that.”

“I know you did,” Treville rubbed a hand over his face. “That was what made it so damned hard. You deserved to have one person in your life who put your needs first. I had promised to be that person and yet I failed you.”

_I_ _t has started slowly. Treville  had got into the habit as his duties allowed of passing by the Academie. In the warm summer months the pupils could often be found practising their sword work on the adjacent open ground. He would often find Athos sparring with one of the older pupils or tutoring the younger ones.  At the sight of him, Athos would always give such a joyous smile as he ran over that Treville had begun to wonder if anyone else ever came to visit with him. He started to fill his pockets full of sweetmeats, or hot apple pastries, that they would share, blowing on their fingers and burning their tongues, talking of everything and nothing as Athos soaked up tale after tale of a soldier’s life._

_“When I grow up I am going to be the best swordsman in the whole of France,” Athos vowed one day, lying on his back, his mouth coated with powered sugar. “See if I’m not.”_

_“And when you are it will be my honour to have you serve under my command.” Treville responded from the bench, stretching his legs out in front of him and tipping his head back, as he enjoyed the heat of the sun._

_“Really?” Athos rolled onto his side, propping himself up onto his elbow, to regard Treville for the first time with a hint of distrust. “You really think we will still know each other when I’m grown?”_

_Trevile decided to simply go with his instincts._

_“I am not in the habit of abandoning my friends,” He made both words and tone a reprimand. “And I would expect someone who aspires to be a soldier to understand the value of loyalty.”_

_“I do,” Athos looked at him with eyes far older than his years. “But those that show loyalty to me often find themselves displaced or demoted and I can hardly blame them for choosing the need to feed their own families over our friendship.”_

_Treville felt a surge of fury. No wonder this lad found it so difficult to value himself when others were so swift, for whatever reason, to cut all ties and turn their back on him._

_“Then hear me, Olivier d’Athos, de la Fere,” Treville reached out and cupped a hand under the boy’s chin, so that he had no choice but to see the sincerity in his gaze. “No matter what, I am and I always will be your friend.”_

_“What if I did something bad?” Athos challenged. “You are a man of honour. You would have no choice but to wash your hands of me.”_

_“Oh Athos,” Treville moved his hand to cup the youngster’s face. “Love doesn’t work like that lad.”_

_Treville had considered the boy’s wobbly smile and the way he had moved his own hand to cover Treville’s sufficient to settle the matter. So, when he returned to the Academie’s training ground a few days later to find Athos nowhere in sight he felt a spurt of fear. If his father had removed him from the school how would he ever keep his word?_

_“Excuse me, monsieur,” He stopped one of the instructor’s. “Where is de la Fere?”_

_“Confined to his room and rightly so,” The instructor’s expression darkened.  “Even the son of one of the most ancient houses in France must bear the consequences of poor decisions. The Academie does not condone fighting between its pupils.”_

_Treville pressed his lips together. He would bet his own commission that whatever had happened Athos had not started it. He had no right or connection which would allow him access to the boy’s room. But nor could he bear the thought of him languishing all alone. And he was not one of the best soldiers in his regiment for nothing. Moving stealthily it took him less than ten minutes to find his way and ease quietly into Athos’ small bedchamber._

_Apart from a small pile of books, some kind of papier mache dragon obviously made by childish hands and clumsily painted a livid green, (the younger brother, Treville supposed), and a lovingly embroidered tapestry, (a memento of his late mother?) there was almost nothing at all that reflected the youngster’s personality in the Spartan quarters. Treville felt a pang of sympathy for the rootless child, and that was before he took in the shivering form in the bed._

_“Athos.”_

_Treville was at his side in an instant, perching on the edge of the narrow bed and placing a cool hand on the fevered brow. Athos’ moaned quietly in response as he arched in response at that soothing, gentle, touch. Gently easing back the blankets looking for the source of his distress, Trevillle could see the bruises standing out starkly on the pale cream of his skin. Worse still, there was a shallow but untreated cut across his stomach  oozing yellow pus, bringing with it the danger of infection and life taking fever. Surging to his feet he stuck his head out of the door and instructed a passing pupil to fetch the physician with such a tone of command that the boy took off at a run._

_“Treville?” Athos blinked uncertainly up at him as he returned to his bedside._

_“Did I not tell you to send word to me if you needed anything?” Treville chided gently. His hand indicated the myriad of bruises and the infected wound. “This would qualify.”_

_“My apologies.” Athos managed. “I did not want to bother you with such a trifle.”_

_Treville could not, would not, let that stand._

_“You and your welfare are no trifle,” He vowed. “Do you truly not know how important you are in my life?”_

_From the boy’s startled wide eyed gaze it would seem that he did not. Treville was almost glad for the boy’s infirmity, for his weakness and fever prompted a liberty that he might otherwise have hesitated to take with the Vicomte de le Fere, but which young Athos clearly sorely needed. Smiling fondly he dropped a soft kiss on his brow._

_“Rest,” He commanded gently._

_Athos looked up at him in wonder, his own defences eroded by the lonely trials of his sickbed, his eyes filling with tears at being the recipient of such gentle affection, from a man he so respected and admired._

_“I wish you were my father.”_

_Treville reached out and took hold of his hand, lacing his tanned, calloused, fingers with the boy’s thin, pale, ones, atop of the blankets and squeezed tightly._

_“Go to sleep. I will be here when you wake up. I will always be here, for you, Athos, no matter what.”_

“Whatever happens, Athos, you’re not going to face this alone,” Treville vowed quietly. “Not so long as there is breath in my body.”

“All for one,” Aramis raised a brow. “Sound at all familiar?”

“What he said.” Porthos agreed.

“You would do the same for us,” d’Artagnan reminded him, cheerfully.

“Do any of you even have a plan?” Athos raised a brow.

“I do,” D’Artagnan said eagerly. “I could lure Milady into a trap. Once she realises the game is up she will throw herself on our mercy and confess all, implicating the Cardinal in the hope of receiving clemency for her actions in his name.”

“And when instead she decides to dispose of you by gutting you like a fish before we can so much get within a sword’s length or let off a single shot?” Porthos remarked. “I mean, what with her being a skilled assassin and not one of ‘em swooning maidens out of one of Aramis’ romance novels?”

“Oh,” d’Artagnan’s face fell. “I suppose I hadn’t really thought that part through.”

“Any plan we devise will need Anne to believe that it is she that has the upper hand,” Athos pointed out. “Nothing else will suffice.”

“This isn’t something to be rushed into,” Treville declared. “The Cardinal and Milady will most likely lie low for now and see if their actions have attracted any unwanted attention. When we spring our trap it needs to be when our prey least expects it.”

He stood up and retrieved a bundle of documents form his cabinet.

“In the meantime, it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea for the four of you to get out of Paris for a while.” He eyed the four men in front of his desk. “I was going to give this to Renard and his men. The documents simply need to be delivered. Take your time. I don’t want to see you back here for a fortnight. Understood?”   

* * *

When they finally returned on the seventieth day, just as Treville was considering sending out a search party, it was clear something had gone disastrously wrong. Normally straight shoulders were slumped, eyes generally sharp with intelligence and wit were dulled and red rimmed with tiredness. Their clothes were stiff with wear and the tang of old sweat and dried blood hung in the air. Most concerning of all, each of them sported some visible injury and the four of them were split between three horses, d’Artagnan riding in front of Athos, his own mount conspicuous by its absence.

“The documents were delivered without incident,” Athos advised him as he slid to the ground. “But we ran into a little trouble on the way back.”

“So, I see,” Treville said with true understatement. “Come upstairs.”

In his office Porthos leant against the window, resting one hand against the frame, as if without its support he could no longer bear his own weight, his left eye swollen shut. Aramis stood against the wall, his usually suave complexion a stark white contrast to the bloody bandage tied around his head. Next to him, by the door, Athos somehow maintained a degree of his usual bearing, leaning just one shoulder against the wooden frame, although his face was marred with a dark bruise and his expression was impossibly weary. Knowing exactly what it would have taken to subdue these men Treville every inch his age as he settled behind his desk.

And then there was d’Artagnan.

The young Gascon looked utterly spent. Drops of sweat stood out on stark relief against his pale, clammy skin at the effort of climbing a single flight of stairs which he usually bounded up two at a time. Treville had not missed the concerned looks which had passed between the others behind his back. Nor that a young man’s with d’Artagnan’s fierce pride had not mustered even a token protest as Athos had politely requested, against usual protocols, that the Gascon might be allowed a chair for the debriefing. Now he sat slumped over, the bandage on his wounded arm spotted with blood, despite Aramis’ needlework, his head hanging down, his usually lively eyes dark and brittle.

“What can you tell me about the men who attacked you?”

“They’re all dead.” Porthos said darkly.

“It was an ambush,” Athos answered. “They fell upon us just as dusk was falling, clearly hoping that our reactions would be slowed by a long day in the saddle. We were greatly outnumbered. We managed to fight them off, but as you see not without sustaining a number of injuries.”

Treville looked at Aramis for clarification.

“Porthos took a sword pommel to the eye. The bruise will be quite spectacular but the eye itself is undamaged. It should be fine as soon as the swelling goes down. I managed to relieve my opponent of his sword, but he proved rather handy with a horse whip and caught me on the temple before I could disarm him.”

“It bled like fury, being a head wound and all,” Porthos put in. “But Athos did a right nice job of stitching it up for all Aramis pouted about him cutting off some of his hair.”

“It’ll grow back extra curly,” Aramis protested. “Just see if it doesn’t.”

“What happened to you?” Treville looked at Athos.

“My horse lost its footing. I was thrown a small distance which caused the bruising you see but I have suffering no lasting effects.”

“And d’Artagnan?”

“More worried about the fact that they sliced right through his pauldron than the seven stitches in his arm,” Aramis swiftly spoke up, before the Gascon could respond. “Nothing that won’t mend in time though.”

“Do you think these men who attacked you had any connection with the plot against the Queen?” Treville asked.

“It’s not impossible,” Athos allowed. “When we searched their bodies they had nothing on them which might have served to identify them. And their clothes were ill-fitting and clearly not their own. It would be a most convenient ruse to remove any threat we might represent.”

“Or we are being overly paranoid and they were just cautious types who stripped their victims of more than just their valuables,” Aramis shrugged. “Their accents were local to the region.”

“People don’t always need a reason not to like us,” Porthos agreed.

“I am going to authorise medical leave for all four of you,” Treville was already reaching for paper and pen. “And I don’t want to hear a word of complaint about it. You all need time to recuperate.”   

“I know a charming young barmaid who would be just the balm my wounds require.” Aramis raised a weary smile. “She also serves the best roast goose you will ever taste.”

“Wound,” Porthos corrected, from his perch by the window, tipping his head on one side at Aramis’ forehead when the other man frowned at him. “It was just the one wound. No need to be getting all melodramatic about it.”

“As you said yourself, head wounds bleed a great deal, I was quite overcome with weakness. I need to build up my strength.”

“Me, I plan to play a few card games, drink enough to put Athos to shame, and then sleep for the rest of the week,” Porthos looked at Athos. “How about you?”

“D’Artagnan will need a new horse,” Athos allowed. “I have already sent word to Philippe.”

“You can’t be thinkin’ of going all the way to Beauvais.” Porthos protested. “You need to be restin’.”

“Or at least, permit us to accompany you,” Aramis put in. “You need to be careful. Another fall coming too quickly on that last and you could quite addle those fine wits of yours.”

Treville narrowed his eyes. His primary focus had been on d’Artagnan. The young man had seemed the most visibly afflicted by their recent trials. Treville had imagined it could be explained away by a farm boy’s grief at the loss of his horse. But the note of strain underlying Porthos’ words and Aramis clear concern now caught his attention.

“Tell me again how you came to fall from your horse?” He asked Athos deceptively mildly.

There was not a flicker of reaction on Athos’ face. Nor did he expect to see it. But the way Aramis sagged slightly further down the wall, as if in resignation and Porthos looked as if he wanted to bite out his tongue was telling.

Across the room d’Artagnan visibly flinched.

“It was an accident,” Treville could not help but notice that Athos was looking at d’Artagnan rather than him as he spoke, although, the younger man did not even seem to notice. “One of the attackers was able to get off a lucky shot. My horse was taken out from under me. But I assure you the fall was not serious.”

“Aramis?” Treville looked at the other man for his assessment.

“It was a heavy fall,” Aramis shot a slightly apologetic look at Athos as he sought to explain Porthos’ worry. “He was insensible for a short time. But as you see he is now quite himself again.”

In general Treville was proud of the way these men would watch each other’s backs. But it was infuriating in the extreme when they chose to close ranks against him. He knew that if he made it a direct order they would tell him exactly what he wanted to know. Porthos was already looking increasingly uncomfortable under his scrutiny and d’Artagnan looked as if he was about to face his own execution.

“Captain, if there is nothing further?” Athos interrupted his thoughts.

Treville met the gaze of his second in command and saw the silent request there to let this go.

“Very well, you’re dismissed, gentlemen, enjoy your leave and try to stay out of trouble,” Treville ignored the collective sigh of relief as the men began to trail from the room. “Athos, a moment of your time, please?”

“D’Artagnan blames himself for my fall,” Athos admitted, as soon as they were alone. He saw no reason to dance around what Treville had clearly already worked out. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Handle it as you see fit,” Treville nodded his assent. He trusted Athos’ judgement, especially where the headstrong young Gascon was concerned. He gave his second in command a level look. “I was merely going to ask if you were alright?”

“I believe I am doing quite well in the circumstances,” Athos nodded. “Aramis and Porthos have been a great support to me and I find I am quite looking forward to introducing d’Artagnan to Philippe.”

“He’s going to have questions,” Treville warned.

“I know,” Athos hesitated. “I shall do my best to answer them.”

Treville smiled, letting his pride shine through. Athos had never been short on courage. Even when he had had every reason to turn his back in the world he had still be willing to love and let himself be loved. He waited until Athos had turned to leave before asking.    

“Is d’Artagnan right to blame himself for your fall?”

Athos did not turn around. But nor did he pretend not to know what Treville was referring to. D’Artagnan _had_ made a serious mistake. But it had been an error of youth and inexperience rather than one of deliberate negligence. And the dire consequences of his actions had already weighed far more heavily on the young Gascon’s shoulder than any punishment Treville could administer.

“No,” Athos responded. “At least, not as much as he does.”


	25. Recouperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I rather thought I might use this time to return to Gascony," d'Artagnan found himself saying. "I haven't had a chance to look over the farm since LaBarge."
> 
> And perhaps see if he could possibly build a life from the cold ashes, since he obviously wasn't cut out to be a musketeer after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tissue warning for something sad happening to d'Artagnan's horse, but on the plus side Athos doesn't die

D'Artagnan surged to his feet the moment that Treville dismissed them, rapidly blinking away the black spots that danced in front of his vision as he swayed slightly, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to make it the short distance out onto the balcony, only to find that his strength was utterly spent after just a few steps and he had to lean heavily on the rail, clutching at the wood tightly and trying to swallow down his nausea and even out his breathing as Aramis and Porthos came up behind him.

"Easy now," Aramis laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Not need to go rushing things. It will take a day or so of rest before your body can begin to make up the strength it lost after a wound like yours."

"I'm alright." D'Artagnan managed tightly.

"Like hell you are," Porthos scoffed, not unkindly. "You've got a bloody great musket score across in your arm that sliced right through your pauldron and took seven stitches to stop the bleeding. But Aramis is right enough. A decent meal and a good sleep in a proper bed and you'll soon feel more like yourself again."

"It will take a day or two to make all the preparations for the trip to Beauvais. Athos has already given me a purse full of coin to shop for the best provisions," Aramis positively beamed, greatly cheered by the thought of the succulent cured ham, soft white bread and good Anjou wine he would buy. "And enough left over for a fine new shirt apiece so that we are fit for civilised company."

"I rather thought I might use this time to return to Gascony," d'Artagnan found himself saying. "I haven't had a chance to look over the farm since LaBarge."

_And perhaps see if he could possibly build a life from the cold ashes, since he obviously wasn't cut out to be a musketeer after all._

He felt Aramis straighten up beside him, but did not see the way his brow furrowed in concern, or how Porthos' eyes crinkled with worry at his words.

"That's not a trip you should be making alone." Aramis said carefully.

"Especially not when you're hurtin' so badly," Porthos counselled. "Let's talk to Athos. Maybe after we pick you up a decent horse at Beauvais we could all travel south together."

"I'm quite sure I could convince Treville to extend our leave our a little on the grounds that that mild Gascon weather would be restorative for our wounds," Aramis declared. "Despite all his years in Paris he has never forgotten his affection for his provincial roots."

"Eh, that's a right fine idea," Porthos enthused. "I've never been to Gascony. I can't think of a better man to introduce me to its delights."

D'Artagnan was hit with a sick feeling of panic. He had known all along that his friends were honourable men. He should have realised that no matter what his personal failings they would feel duty bound to stand by him. Already feeling grimy and uncomfortable after several days in the same clothes, not to mention made slightly sick by the smell of his own blood, it all became too much for him. He tugged desperately at his collar, feeling suddenly hot and cold all at once. The throbbing of his injured arm only served to underline how close he had come to letting Athos down. To getting him _killed_. At that thought his stomach gave a desperate lurch and he ruthlessly swallowed down a wave of nausea as he tried to flee but his legs suddenly seemed unable to support him. He grabbed blindly at the rail, but somehow misjudged the distance and fell heavily.

" _D'Artagnan_!"

The last thing he heard was Athos' voice coming as if from a long way off, just before the pain hit and the world went dark.

* * *

The next thing d'Artagnan was aware of was a cool hand, resting gently on his forehead. With the heat of fever coursing through his body, it was impossible not to lean into that blessedly welcome touch. Beneath him was the comfort of freshly laundered linen, with the scents of sweet straw and fresh lavender from the well stuffed mattress circling around him. Draped over him was the light weight of a soft pure woollen blanket. After days of hardship and discomfort it felt all like untold luxury.

"D'Artagnan?" Above him Athos' voice was a mixture of concern and gentle command. "Open your eyes now lad."

Blinking slightly d'Artagnan did as he was told to see a ceiling that was definitely not his room in the Garrison. Sliding his eyes to the left he saw Athos, perched on his edge of the bed, his furrowed brow smoothing out into a relieved smile as he saw D'Artagnan looking back at him. Aramis and Porthos hovering anxiously behind him broke into broad grins.

"Do you know where you are?" Aramis asked.

Glancing around somewhat hesitantly, d'Artangon took in the metal framed bed, the armour hung up at one end, the small window to the side and the all too familiar desk and cabinet beyond. As the horrified realisation struck he felt a wave of utter mortification wash over him as he worked out _exactly_ where he was.

_He was in Captain Treville's bed._

Pushing aside the weakness of his body by sheer force of will, d'Artagnan manfully ignored his fevered tremors to use one hand to weakly try to move the blanket aside, but even that slight movement was enough to jar his wounded arm in a manner that had him hissing with pain and falling back on the bed.

"Be still," Athos scolded mildly. "You'll only injure yourself further."

"But the Captain," D'Artagnan protested weakly.

"Is presently out fetching more brandy," Aramis supplied helpfully. "Apparently, our endeavours make serious dents in his supply."

"I don't wish to sound ungrateful, but I don't think I could stomach any brandy just now." D'Artagnan confessed. "The room is already spinning."

"The brandy ain't for you," Porthos told him, even as he poured a little water into a cup and came around the bed, lifting up d'Artagnan's head so he could drink a few mouthfuls, wetting his parched throat. "You gave Athos a right good scare passing out like that. Thought we was gonna have two patients on our hands for a minute there."

"Don't go frightening the boy, I am perfectly fine." Athos huffed.

Remembering everything that had gone before d'Artagnan frowned at Athos. Now he looked closely he could see, despite his protestations, just how pale and wan he mentor seemed.

"You _will_ be fine," Aramis corrected gently but firmly. "But you suffered a serious blow to the head. You need quiet and rest to ensure you heal fully."

* * *

_The brigands had fallen upon them without warning. In the lead, Athos and Porthos were attacked first, Athos reaching for his sword, as Porthos dismounted, swinging about him with his fists and his boots as he went for his knife. D'Artagnan had fought off two attackers of his own, when a musket ball scored its way across his shoulder. At his startled cry of pain Aramis swiftly grabbed his horse's reigns and pulled him behind the cover of some trees, urging him to dismount._

" _Let me see."_

" _It's just a scratch." D'Artagnan gritted his teeth even as Aramis inspected his arm._

" _More like a furrow," Working swiftly Aramis cut the straps of d'Artagnan's pauldron away but left his jacket in place, digging in his saddle bag for a strip of cloth, binding the sluggishly bleeding wound tightly. "That will hold for now, but I would suggest we deal with our new friends as swiftly as possible."_

" _Do you have a plan?" d'Artagnan managed._

" _There are too many of them to defeat by swordplay alone," Aramis decided. "But from this cover we could use muskets to pick them off one by one," The sharpshooter's pistol was already in his hand, causing one of the brigands to fall to the ground with a cry of pain, even as Aramis reloaded, flashing a swift grin in d'Artagnan's direction. "It doesn't need to be a head shot, go for the chest or the leg, whatever will bring them down. The most important thing is to be fast. Understand?"_

" _Aramis please." D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. Hadn't they practiced this a hundred times in the Garrison courtyard after his error with Gallagher's men? "I can do this."_

_Between them they picked off six of the brigands. Athos had killed two with his sword and Porthos had incapacitated one and killed another, when the unthinkable happened. Aramis had just let off a shot and ducked back under cover to reload when they saw one of the brigands manoeuvring around so he had a clear shot at Porthos._

" _D'Artagnan?" Aramis urged._

" _I'm .. almost there." D'Artagnan assured him as he fumbled with power and shot, fingers made slippery and awkward by the pressing need for speed._

" _Now_ would _be ideal." Aramis said tightly._

_In his haste d'Artagnan made a schoolboy error and rammed the musket ball too hard and too far down so it jammed in the barrel. Casting a horrified look at Aramis it dawned on each of them at the same time that neither of them would be ready fast enough to save Porthos._

" _Porthos!" Instead Aramis yelled a warning. "Down!"_

_At his panicked cry, Athos whirled his horse around, his eyes widening in shock as he saw Porthos standing directly in the line of fire. With a roar he urged his mount forward, bearing down on this new threat, eyes flashing with fury as he ploughed straight into the brigand, knocking him flying so that his pistol discharged harmlessly into the air. Wheeling around to re-enter the fray d'Artagnan watched with horror as Athos' horse lost its footing on the uneven ground and went down. Despite his best efforts Athos was thrown off to land with a sickening thud onto the hard earth. Where he lay, silent and unmoving, even as his horse lurched to its feet, shaking it's head in distress._

" _Athos!" D'Artagnan cried, trying to rouse him._

_Porthos cast a single, stricken, look at Athos still form. But before he could move to his aid he was set upon by a pair of brigands, leaving Athos defenceless in the midst of the battle._ _Behind him d'Artagnan heard the bark of a musket as Aramis continued to pick off their assailants._

" _Athos!" Porthos shouted, risking a glance over his shoulder, even as he frantically tried to back up to protect his friend's prone form, but his slow progress hampered by the need to focus on his own opponents. "Wake up, damn you!"_

_But still Athos did not stir._

_D'Artagnan's blood ran cold as he saw one of the brigands, sword in hand and murder in his eyes approaching Athos' body. With a sudden sick certainty d'Artagnan realised Athos was going to_ die _and it was all his fault._

* * *

D'Artagnan didn't remember falling asleep but when he woke with a gasp, his heart racing at the awful nightmare of Athos lying so pale and still, the room was in darkness, lit only by a stand of candles close to the bedside.

"D'Artagnan, calm yourself," Treville's voice steady voice was matched by a firm hand on his chest. "You're safe here."

"Athos?" d'Artagnan asked in a panicked voice.

He craned his neck, desperately trying to locate his mentor, but could only see Aramis, his head tipped to one side as he snored softly, his stocking feet propped on the corner of the mattress, using what looked to be Treville's own well-worn blue musketeer cloak as a blanket, as he dozed in a chair on the other side of the bed, his features stark white in the dim light.

"Safe and well and sound asleep if he knows what's good for him," Treville said fondly. "Porthos is watching over him."

Athos had protested, of course, unwilling to leave his protégé's bedside. But Treville had been amused at how powerless he had been to resist his friends worry as Aramis and Porthos had fussed over him like two mother hens with a particularly stubborn chick. His Captain's not so thinly veiled reminder that he had some experience of caring for headstrong young men when they were sick or hurting had settled the matter.

Although, Treville had also had to promise Athos that he would see to it that Aramis got the rest he needed, rather than fretting over his patient all night. It was testament to how utterly exhausted the sharpshooter truly was that all it had taken was a slightly generous tot of brandy and the kind assurance that he would wake Aramis if d'Artagnan had need of him to lull the man into a deep sleep. One the Captain had no intention of disturbing, fully intending to take care of the young Gascon himself.

"Can you sit up a little?" He asked d'Artagnan.

Using his good arm, d'Artagnan was able to do most of the work himself, easing himself up until his back was settled against the head board. Even so, a blush coloured his cheeks, as Treville assisted him by moving the pillows so they were comfortably situated behind him.

Pretending not to notice the boy's slight awkwardness, Treville moved over to the fireplace, unwrapping a small cloth wrapped bundle sitting on the hearth. He carefully placed it on a tray and put a spoon and a glass beside it, fetching a decanter of decent port and filing the glass to the brim before returning to his patient's bedside.

"I promised Athos I would get you to eat a little of this," He set the tray in the boy's lap and picked up the spoon, offering it so that he could take it in his good hand. "Apparently, it's your favourite."

"Oh," D'Artagnan felt an odd tightness in his chest when he recognised the warming mixture of beans and bacon in the little dish. His eyes stung a little, feeling quite undeserving of such kindness. "Yes." He said hollowly. "It is."

"Try a little," Treville commanded, as he settled on the edge of the bed. "Even if you don't feel hungry your body needs the nourishment to heal."

"Yes sir."

D'Artagnan mechanically scooped up a mouthful, chewed and swallowed. To his utter chagrin he realised that the Captain intended to sit by him as he ate. He took another mouthful, only to realise that his hand was shaking, the spoon rattling slightly against his teeth as he swallowed.

"Here. Let me."

Treville's hand, warm and sure, closed over his own, which was pale and chilled despite the heat of the room. D'Artagnan felt the spoon being eased from his grasp and watched with a certain horrified detachment as the Captain dipped it into the bowl and brought it expectantly up to his lips.

"Captain," d'Artagnan blushed bright red at being fed like an infant. "I can feed myself."

"There is no shame in being wounded in the service of the crown," Treville observed calmly, still offering the well laiden spoon "Particularly, if your actions are in defence of your brothers."

Contrary to his expectations, d'Artagnan flinched as if his words were a rebuke rather than an encouragement and meekly opened his mouth to accept the spoonful of beans and bacon as if this small humiliation was actually some kind of punishment.

"It was my fault," d'Artagnan said miserably, once he had chewed and swallowed. He hadn't been paying very much attention to what Athos had said in his report to Treville so he wasn't entirely sure exactly how much the Captain knew. "I'm supposed to be a _Musketeer_ but I couldn't reload fast enough. And Athos paid for my mistake."

Dipping the spoon back into the bowl and chasing a particularly crispy piece of bacon around the rim, Treville decided to try a different track.

"Did you know that in recent weeks," He offered the spoon anew. "Porthos, Aramis and Athos have all come to me at different times, to express their worry that you are trying too hard to prove yourself?"

It was, he supposed, just a little underhand that he took advantage of the way the lad's jaw dropped open at that little piece of information to pop the spoonful inside. He was glad to see that the trick stirred a little of d'Artagnan's usual spirit, provoking a mutinous look as he ate.

"I just wanted to be worthy of the King's commission," d'Artagnan protested, as soon as his mouth was empty. Then his eyes slid away as he offered with a quiet sincerity that made Treville's heart ache. "And they have been nothing but good to me. I had hoped more than anything to make them proud."

A lessor man might have missed the use of the past tense, or simply mistaken it for the maudlin thoughts of a young man's wounded pride. Treville was not such a man and he frowned to hear the lad Athos had described as "possibly the greatest of us all" utterly dismissing all that he had achieved.

"Most new recruits would not attempt to model themselves after the very finest men in the regiment," Treville advised him. "No one, especially not your brothers, expect you to go from being a Gascon farm boy to a seasoned soldier in just a few short months."

Instead of appearing comforted d'Artagnan looked positively grey at his words. He took up the glass of port and swallowed it down in a single desperate gulp, before pushing the tray away as if the food had suddenly become utterly tasteless and felt nauseous in his stomach.

"I'm sorry for having inconvenienced you, Captain," He said, looking anywhere but at Treville. "With your permission, I would like to return to my quarters now."

Treville could only shake his head at the folly of youthful pride. Shamelessly taking advantage of the boy's present infirmity, he deftly plucked the pillows out from behind his back, took him firmly by his good arm and laid him back down in the bed, carefully suppressing his smile at the look on d'Artagnan's face as he firmly tucked the covers around him.

"The only reason that Athos agreed to get the rest he needed was because I gave him my word I would watch over you," He found himself giving into the temptation to gently sweep that long hair off that pale brow. And if he could feel Athos' spirit standing in the doorway, smirking a little at the hard bitten Captain giving a boy wounded in body and spirit a little fatherly comfort, he rather thought his Lieutenant would understand. Straightening up Treville gave his doublet a slightly self-conscious tug. "Rest now and try and sleep. I have some matters of state to attend to so I'll be here if you need anything."

"Captain, I ..." D'Artagnan faltered. "Thank you."

He felt so ridiculously reassured by Treville's promise that he wouldn't leave him, despite everything, that he did not quite know what to do with himself. For his part the Captain knew that Athos would want him to do more, go that bit further for this young man who, although he was decidedly _not_ Thomas had done so much to fill that void in his Lieutenant's life.

"Listen to me, son," He looked down on the prone figure in the bed. "You have fought and bled for this regiment. Your Captain does not ask any more of you. Nor do your brothers, Athos most of all. Talk to him. Sort this out before you leave for Beauvais. That's an order by the way."

* * *

D'Artagnan swallowed hard as Porthos cheerfully slid a heaped plate in front of him, before sitting down on his left and digging into his own breakfast. Raising his eyes caught Athos' gaze as Aramis presented him with an identically large portion, and sat down on his right. With an utterly deadpan expression, Athos carefully selected the slice of brie and a soft roll before pointedly pushing the rest of the plate away. Emboldened by his example, d'Artagnan chose a piece of ham and a hard-boiled egg.

"Eh, you two need to eat more than that." Porthos scolded.

"We are merely injured not imbeciles or incapacitated," Athos retorted. The way he so easily spoke for both of them caused d'Artagnan's chest to flood with warmth. "Allow us to judge for ourselves what we require to heal."

"Yeah, cos you're both so good at takin' care of yourselves," Porthos scoffed fondly. "You, at least two rolls, if you think you're getting any wine," He glared at Athos, before scowling at d'Artagnan. "And you, another slice of that ham, if you know what's good for you."

Athos met d'Artagnan's eyes across the table and gave a conspiratorial grin which suggested he had never expected to get away with less, but that now at least they had escaped their friends' pouting, (Aramis), and scolding, (Porthos), when they inevitably failed to polish off the well-meaning but completely unrealistic portions. D'Artagnan grinned back at him, his heart brimming with love.

And then his brain caught up with his actions and he dropped his eyes to his plate in shame, even the meagre portion making him feel nauseous.

"D'Artagnan," Athos' hand reached across the table and cupped his jaw, gently but firmly forcing him to meet his gaze. His knowing gaze made the Gascon shrink slightly inside his clothes, even though his eyes and tone were impossibly kind. "In the heat of battle even the best laid plans can go awry. Do you truly think that none of us have ever placed the others in danger?"

"At least you didn't shoot 'im." Porthos spoke up, around a mouthful of bread.

"You _shot_ Athos?" d'Artagnan gaped.

"Not me. But Aramis here did."

"I thought we agreed that we were never going to speak of that again." Aramis huffed.

"You and Athos agreed. I never did."

"Still." Aramis scowled at him.

"I'm just trying to make the lad here feel better," Porthos shrugged unrepentantly.

" _You_ shot Athos?" d'Artagnan looked expectantly at Aramis, trying not to sound _too_ eager and failed miserably if the looks his friends exchanged were any indication.

"It was a masterly shot," Athos praised quietly, earning a small proud smile from Aramis. "It undoubtedly saved my life."

"It _was_ the only way," Aramis reflected modestly. He looked across at d'Artagnan. "Athos had done his usual noble self-sacrificing thing and gone and got himself taken hostage. His fine words were being quite wasted on the snivelling wretch who had a knife to his throat. It was impossible to get a clear shot but if any further delay would have seen our dear Athos spirited away to who knew where. So, I did the very last thing he expected."

"You weren't worried that you could have killed him?" d'Artagnan ventured.

"D'Artagnan please," Aramis rolled his eyes. "Must I remind you that I have extensive knowledge of the human anatomy? A bullet just here," Aramis pointed at a spot on his shoulder. "Causes a little muscle damage but there is no bone to impede its progress, so it can pass straight through without permanent injury. Straight into our villain, giving Athos the chance to duck out from under his blade and finish him off."

Aramis paused.

"Besides, Porthos pushed him off a cliff."

"Only because 'e was being a right stubborn sod," Porthos countered, with a scowl.

"Still, that seems .. a little harsh." D'Artagnan made a face.

"Athos had a cut across his stomach and was bleeding like a stuck pig. We were surrounded on three sides and I could see his movements quickly getting' slower and slower. Aramis and the envoy we were escorting were already waiting for us on the boat down river, but Athos here had refused to leave when he should 'ave."

"Even you would have found odds of twelve to one someone insurmountable," Athos pointed out mildly. "I was not about to leave you to die because of a mere scratch."

"That 'mere scratch' required twelve stitches," Aramis murmured.

"So, what happened?" d'Artagnan wanted to know.

"You see the thing about beating the odds," Porthos told him. "Is it ain't about trying to face 'em down, it's about usin' your noggin and workin' out how to get around 'em."

"Beating or cheating?" Athos asked without rancour.

"Same difference, ain't it?" Porthos grinned brightly. He looked at d'Artagnan and winked. "I waited until he was looking the other way and then I gave him a right good shove off the cliff and jumped in after. Think there was at least six of 'em swords drawn still up for our blood, but they were too cowardly to follow us. Aramis fished us both out a few feet down stream and we all lived to fight another day."

"I know what you're all trying to do," d'Artagnan pressed his lips together. "But this wasn't like that. I made a mistake. I know I did."

"Are you _quite_ forgetting the part when you put your own life at risk to save me?" Athos challenged. "At great personal cost to yourself?"

* * *

_Acting on instinct d'Artagnan dashed to his horse and swiftly swung himself up into the saddle. Over the furious sounds of clashing blades and flying bullets he dimly heard Aramis' cry calling him back. But all he could think of was getting to Athos as quickly as possible. Leaning forward and urging his horse on d'Artagnan kept as low and as close to his mount's neck as he could as the bullets flew around him. His blood ran cold as he saw the brigand lift, ready to bring it down across Athos' neck. His own sword gripped tightly in his hand urged the last ounce of speed out of his mare and ruthlessly cut the man down before his blade could fall._

_Swinging down off his horse before it had even fully stopped, d'Artagnan momentarily froze in horror as he took in his friend's crumpled form, the thin trickle of blood running down his pale temple making him look uncharacteristically vulnerable. Saying a swift prayer that he wasn't about to do more harm than good, but knowing that he couldn't leave Athos here, d'Artagnan clicked at his horse, encouraging her to lie down, so that he could more easily settle his friend across her withers._

_D'Artgnan had never been more grateful for his mare being so fleet of foot as she speed her precious burden to safely, under Aramis' covering fire. And then with d'Artagnan's hands shaking on the reigns and cold sweat trickling down his spine Aramis was right there, relieving him of Athos' weight and carefully laying him down on a soft blanket to protect him from the cold, hard, earth._

" _He's still breathing," Aramis swiftly ran his hands gently across Athos' body checking for breaks or other injuries. "And his limbs all seem sound."_

" _That's good, right?" d'Artagnan's almost sagged with relief._

" _Hopefully, athough, it means something else knocked him senseless," Aramis took a moment to cup Athos' cheek tenderly, before becoming all business again. "Watch over him. I've a few more brigands to kill."_

_Hovering anxiously over his friend, it took d'Artagnan a moment to register his horse's harsh breathing, her sides moving in and out like bellows, before her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed. So that when his brothers finally returned, it was to find him sitting cross legged on the ground, cradling his horse's head in his lap, his face streaked with tears and his eyes fixed on the steady rise and fall of Athos' chest._

" _What happened?"_

" _She ran her heart out for me,"d'Artagnan managed, as he tugged fondly at the velvet ears. "It was as if she knew that we had to save Athos."_

" _Love is a powerful motivator," Aramis said kindly._

" _She wasn't bred for the battlefield, she was never supposed to be anything more than a gentleman farmer's hack," d'Artagnan's voice cracked. "But she never flinched at the musket fire and she did everything I ever asked of her."_

" _A good man makes a good beast," Porthos said gruffly. "A real credit to you she was. Athos will be right sorry for it when he wakes."_

_D'Artagnan had initially been surprised that a man of Athos' obvious education and breeding was quite so knowledgeable about how to gentle, handle and care for even the most challenging of horseflesh. Treville frequently called upon him and Aramis to school prospective mounts for the Regiment and Athos was notorious for not giving up on the most vicious nag if it showed the slightest hint of promise._

" _Will he be alright?" d'Artagnan sniffed._

_Aramis sank to his knees beside Athos and proceed to give him the kind of thorough examination that simply had not been possible when they were all still under fire._

" _There's a lump on the back of his head the size of a goose egg," he observed. Looking up at the worried expressions of his friends he hastened to reassure. "That's not as bad as it sounds. Better that the swelling goes outward than it presses on his brain."_

" _But he's going to be alright?" d'Artagnan pressed._

" _Of course," Aramis forced a smile, saying what he knew the Gascon needed to hear. "And when he does he will expect that wound of yours to be cleaned, stitched and bandaged. So, Porthos will take good care of your mare and I will take care of you."_

" _I can dig." D'Artgnan protested, even though in truth his wounded arm was throbbing terribly._

" _I'm sure you can," Porthos agreed kindly. "But you don't have to. I give you my word I'll treat her right, just like she was my own. You go on with Aramis."_

" _Thank you," D'Artagnan swallowed hard. "I am sorry. I'm so sorry."_

" _There, there, now," Aramis soothed, even though neither he nor Porthos were entirely sure what the Gascon was apologising for. "Everything will be alright."_

* * *

"But it _was_ my fault," d'Artagnan protested now, as he surged to his feet, blinking fiercely at the tears stinging his eyes. "If only I had trained harder, been faster, I let you all down. I let myself down."

"Charles." Athos said very quietly.

Aramis was never quite sure if it was the use of his Christian name, or the look on Athos' face as d'Artagnan turned to see his mentor standing behind him. With a choked sound he threw himself into Athos' arms and buried his face into his neck as he began to sob fiercely.

"Hush now," Athos stroked his hair gently. "You made a mistake but you also risked your life and that of your beloved mare to save my miserable skin."

" _Not_ miserable," d'Artagnan choked out, his voice thick with tears and snot. "Not ever that. You are the very best of men. You are everything that I would wish to be."

"God forbid," Athos scoffed fondly, even as he hugged d'Artagnan a little tighter. "I rather hope that you can profit from my example of what _not_ to do. But perhaps, if you are willing to learn the skills I can teach you, I will find redemption in giving back something truly good to the world."

"You are always too hard on yourself," d'Artagnan recovered himself sufficiently to pull back and scowl at Athos. "How many would call me too wilful or headstrong? Do you really think I would to give my love and loyalty to a man who did not deserve it?"

"He's got you there," Aramis grinned. "Our little Gascon firecracker wouldn't follow just anyone."

"Too alike for your own good and right idiots the pair of you," Porthos allowed fondly. "Now eat up. We've a long ride ahead of us to Beauvais and I don't want to be the one who has to explain to Philippe why either of you swooned from lack of nourishment."

"So," d'Artagnan obediently picked up his hard-boiled egg and nibbled on the end of it. "Who exactly is this Philippe?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It really only occurred to me as I was writing this chapter that d'Artagnan's horse would not actually have been schooled for the demands of battle – so I am taking some inspiration from the fact that they decided to get Luke a new horse for season 2 because his original mount had given him too much trouble – but also from a display I once saw by the household cavalry where they got their horses to lie down on command which seemed like a pretty nifty skill.


	26. Philippe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am not one of your Musketeers, therefore I am under no obligation to follow any of your orders,” Philippe grinned cheekily, as he tipped back in his chair and beamed up at Athos, crossing one foot in front of the other as he propped them on the table in a manner that reminded d’Artagnan of Aramis. “And since you are a guest under my roof you would never be so unmannerly as to try and compel me to behave.”
> 
> “Is that so?” Athos smiled thinly before seizing the heel of his boot and tipping him unceremoniously backwards. “That would be your second mistake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I had no time to write a festive offering I hope you will enjoy the dispersing of gifts as in the spirit of the season!

The long sweeping gravel driveway gave out onto an ornamental fountain with a large sculpture of a rearing horse, carved from tasteful yellow stone in the middle. Set back just a little, stood a handsome house of three floors, similar in size to Athos' mansion at la Fere, with large windows and little topiary creatures of birds and animals dotted about.

"We're staying  _here_?" d'Artagnan managed in a slightly strangled voice.

"Philippe won't be in the house." Athos advised as he steered his horse around to the left of the building and headed towards a separate block which was obviously the stables. Leaving their horses with a stable hand in the neat and well-appointed yard, Porthos' mount being particularly fussed over at his return, they walked over to a large ménage where a young man was putting an obviously green filly through her paces. Stripped down to his shirtsleeves he was utterly focused on his task. D'Artagnan watched with no small degree of admiration as he coaxed the obviously flighty little thoroughbred to settle down and pay attention to her rider's signals. He did not even notice that he had an audience until he had made two successful circuits at a smooth even canter.

"Athos!"

His look of utter concentration melted away into a joyous grin that lit up his whole face. Bringing the young filly to a halt he leapt off her back, petting her nose with obvious affection and feeding her a slice or two of apple in reward, before passing the reins to off to another man with a few words of instruction. Then he crossed the short distance to the fence in three long strides, vaulting over with the ease of long practice.

"You made it," His face was wreathed with smiles. "I've been waiting most impatiently for your arrival since you sent word that you and your friends were coming. It's been far too long."

Somewhat to d'Artagnan's surprise Athos gave a tolerant smile as Philippe hugged him exuberantly. He tried to ignore the little spark of jealously when Athos' arms came up and he actually hugged him back.

"You remember Aramis and Porthos?" Athos nodded at them.

"Of course," Philippe beamed. "Welcome to my new residence gentlemen."

D'Artagnan watched as his fellow Musketeers greeted this Philippe with hearty slaps on the back and vigorous hand-shakes with a sharp pang. It had obviously been naïve of him to assume that Aramis and Porthos would be as much in the dark about this friend of Athos' as he was.

It was petty and childish of him to mind.

"And you must be d'Artagnan," Philippe turned to him with a warm smile, giving a small bow as he offered his hand. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Athos mentioned in his letter that you had recently been injured. I hope you didn't find the journey here too taxing?"

"Very pleased to meet you," d'Artagnan responded politely "And I'm fine, thank you."

"Then you are a better man than I," Philippe said heartily, scrupulously not mentioning the fact that the young Gascon actually looked really quite dreadful, as if a stiff breeze might be enough to knock him flat, nor did he comment on the slight tremor he could feel under his hand as he patted his shoulder. He knew Athos' keen eyes would have missed nothing. "I had the misfortune of being shot with a musket ball once. I thought it was absolute agony."

"You were a Musketeer?" d'Artagnan could not hide his surprise.

"Oh no, nothing so honourable," Philippe laughed, even he began to lead the way back to the house, wiping off his neck with his scarf as he went "I was a hot headed and impetuous youth who thought that it was the height of honour to duel over a pretty girl. My folly led me into a situation where I found myself more than a little out of my depth."

"You barely knew one end of a musket from the other," Athos grumbled, although not without affection. "You were lucky not to get your head blown off."

"That is true," Philippe gave a rueful grin. "I was always more of a lover than a fighter. Elizabeth will be extremely sorry to have missed you. She has taken the children to visit with her parents for a while."

"How is my Godson?" Athos asked.

"Thomas is growing into a fine lad, much like his namesake," Philippe's expression was momentarily tinged with sadness, before he gave Athos a fond look. "That sword you sent him was altogether too generous a gift for a boy his age."

"No doubt he will grow into it." Athos said dryly.

"You seem to have rather gone up in the world since we last visited you," Aramis commented, gesturing to their surroundings. "I think the topiary would rival that in the King's own gardens."

"It came with the title," Philippe made a face. "Although, the extra land and stables have been a real boon and Elizabeth has rather enjoyed the decorating."

"My Lord," a man who was obviously some kind of manservant greeted them at the front door. "M. le Comte, gentlemen, welcome. I have arranged for your friends to have the adjoining rooms on the second floor."

"So formal, Robert," Philippe teased him. "Athos already knows you of old and his friends here are all soldiers. There's no need for your court manners here."

"As I am frequently at pains to remind you, Philippe, it always bodes well to make a good first impression," Robert rolled his eyes fondly at the young man. "Athos, it is good to see you again," He offered his hand, which Athos clasped warmly. "I've taken the liberty of putting some cheese and wine in your rooms to tide you and your friends over until supper after your long journey. I do hope the accommodations will be to your liking. Philippe said you would prefer to share."

"I'm sure we'll be more than comfortable."

" _My Lord_?" D'Artagnan hissed at Athos as they were conducted upstairs. "You said he was a horse breeder."

"He is." Athos said laconically. "The King himself is one of his clients, as well as much of the best blood in France. His Majesty recently chose to reward him with a title for his services to the Crown."

D'Artagan held his peace until Robert had showed Aramis and Porthos their room. And then he waited, not a little impatiently, until he and Athos were alone in their adjoining bedchamber.

"Please tell me he's not actually a Comte," d'Artagnan hissed as soon as the door closed.

"Would that be a problem?" Athos' brow furrowed.

"Athos, I grew up on a farm in Gascony," D'Artagnan gestured at the room around them, using the large four poster bed, intricately veneered furniture, silk upholstery and fine china to make his point. "I'm a  _little_  out of my depth here."

"Your father was a gentleman," Athos reminded him, "And he took care that you were raised appropriately. You have manners - when you chose to use them. And you are frequently the most fastidious of us all when it comes to food or lodgings,"

"Just because I don't like sleeping with bedbugs or eating animal entrails doesn't mean I can move comfortably in these kind of circles," d'Artagnan protested. The truth was he was tired, in more than a little pain from his wounded arm after a long ride and more than a little terrified that he was going to make some horrendous provincial gaff that would make Athos ashamed to have brought him to meet his old friend. "Have you forgotten that I can barely use my arm? How on earth am I supposed to dress for dinner or navigate the silverware?

"My apologies, I did not realise that coming here would make you so uncomfortable." Athos spoke stiffly, his face full of hurt at the Gascon's outburst. "I will give our regrets to Philippe and tell him we shall leave in the morning."

"Athos." D'Artagnan, already somewhat regretting his tantrum seeing the wounded look on his friend's face. "Wait, I didn't mean .."

"It is too late to leave today. You need rest before you can travel again," Athos cut him off. He spoke stiffly and would not meet d'Artagnan's. gaze. "In the meantime, I shall ask Aramis to step in and help you make yourself comfortable so you can rest. I am sure that that Robert can arrange for a tray brought to your room to spare you the embarrassment of joining us for dinner."

And them he was gone before d'Artagnan could even open his mouth. Sinking down onto the bed he felt like the worst kind of friend. Athos had brought him here, allowed him the privilege of seeing this small part of his past, to help buy him a new horse. And he had just thrown all that back in his face in a fit of childish pique. He was just wondering what he could possibly do to make amends when the door suddenly burst open and he was face to face with a truly angry Aramis, a darkly scowling Porthos at his side.

" _What_  on earth did you say to him?" Aramis hissed.

D'Artagnan gulped. Judging by the furious flash in his eyes and the way he was clenching his fists tightly at his sides he was fairly certain that it was only his present injury that was preventing Aramis from slamming him into the wall.

"I acted like a fool." d'Artagnan confessed. Ducking his head even as he felt the heat of embarrassment rise up his neck, he told them everything.

"Sometimes, you really are an idiot," Porthos berated him, when he had finished. "Do you really think  _any_  of that stuff about what you wear or which spoon you use matters a jot to Athos?"

"I just didn't want to be an embarrassment to him." D'Artagnan managed miserably.

"Yeah, and look how well that has turned out," Porthos scoffed. "You think I knew the first thing about this kind of stuff when I became a Musketeer? Athos never made me feel bad for it. He just quietly showed me by example when was expected and he never steered me wrong."

The sudden knock on the door had the three of them looking at each other with surprise. It was still far too early for supper. Athos would not bother with knocking and d'Artagnan could not think of anyone else in the household who might require his attention. Opening the door he was not expecting to see Philippe, still wearing the simple shirt and breeches he had been sporting at the ménage, his face creased with concern.

"May I speak with you a moment?" He asked politely.

"Of course," d'Artagnan stood aside so his host could enter. "Please do come in."

"Gentlemen," Philippe nodded a greeting at Aramis and Porthos. "I'm glad you're all here. Athos has just told me that your plans have unexpectedly changed and you would be leaving first thing in the morning. Now he is moping about downstairs looking like someone told him he can't keep the puppy that just followed him home. I was rather hoping to enlist your help to try and convince him to stay."

"He didn't say why we were leaving?" Aramis asked with a pointed look at d'Artagnan.

"This  _is_  Athos. Of course, he didn't say," Philippe shook his head fondly, before falling into a more sombre expression. "Although, I rather suspect he finds the memories too hard to bear."

"Memories?" d'Artagnan frowned.

"It has to be something like that, don't you think?" Philippe looked at him. "Although, I have to admit to a degree of surprise, no offence but it's obvious that you all still need time to rest and recuperate so your injuries can heal. It's not at all like Athos to put his own feelings before his friends' welfare. Something must be very wrong."

"My apologies," d'Artagnan could feel himself blushing. "It wasn't Athos decision to leave. I felt a little overwhelmed and I acted badly."

"Then I do hope you will reconsider," Philippe walked over to the small table and poured four glasses of wine. "Athos has often written of you. I was looking forward to meeting you. Although, it is clear that I have the advantage as you obviously know very little about me."

"Athos writes to you?" d'Artagnan managed as he gratefully accepted one of the glasses. "And about me?"

"He usually writes every few months," Philippe nodded as he passed out the glasses and then sat down in one of the two chairs, Aramis took the other, Porthos settled in the window seat and d'Artagnan perched on the edge of the bed. "He knows I worry, the life of a soldier is not without its dangers after all, and he loves me well enough not to leave me without word for too long. Did the two of you really meet when you challenged him to a duel?"

"At the time I thought I had good reason," d'Artagnan excused himself. "Although, it is entirely thanks to Athos' sense of justice and honour that I still live."

"He said much the same about you at the time, something about a firing squad," Philippe fixed him with a piercing look, which suggested a sharp intelligence behind the easy going character. "He has grown to care a great deal for you. He would not have brought you here if that wasn't the case."

"I know that," D'Artagnan pressed his lips together. "I just .."

"I thought I told you to leave him in peace?" Athos' voice put in sternly from the doorway.

"I am not one of your Musketeers, therefore I am under no obligation to follow any of your orders," Philippe grinned cheekily, as he tipped back in his chair and beamed up at Athos, crossing one foot in front of the other as he propped them on the table in a manner that reminded d'Artagnan of Aramis. "And since you are a guest under my roof you would never be so unmannerly as to try and compel me to behave."

"Is that so?" Athos smiled thinly before seizing the heel of his boot and tipping him unceremoniously backwards. "That would be your _second_ mistake."

"Umpf," Philippe managed from the floor, through a tangle of arms and legs.

"Do you two have anything to add?" Athos scowled at Aramis and Porthos.

"We could  _pretend_  to be scared of you if you wish," Aramis offered with a shrug.

"Please, don't strain yourself," Athos gave him a thin smile as he walked over, plucked Aramis' still mostly full glass out of his hand and blithely ignored his put upon expression as he took a long swallow. "Can I take it by this apparent intervention that the three of you have persuaded d'Artagnan to remain?"

"We were workin' on it," Porthos acknowledged. "I could hold him down and sit on 'im until he caves if you want."

"Or if you would agree to join us for supper. I'll tell you all what Athos was like when we were growing up," Philippe looked up at d'Artagnan from his prone position on the floor with a glint in his eyes. "Plus cook's roast pheasant is really rather good."

* * *

To d'Artagnan's pleased surprise supper turned out to be a most congenial affair. The five of them clustered around one end of the long polished dining table. Plates of hot and cold roast meats, fresh bread, delicious fruits and sharp cheeses were laid out for them to help themselves, along with plenty of wine.

"So, just what did Athos tell you about me?" Philippe turned his wine glass around in his hand.

"Just that you were a friend who bred horses, nothing about the extent of your success," D'Artagnan gave a rueful smile. "Oh and he leant he a book on warfare that you bought him."

"You still have that?" Philippe looked pleased.

"Of course," Athos took a sip of his wine. "It has saved my life and those of my brothers more than once."

"Well, that seems fitting," Philippe grinned at him. "Since, you were undoubtedly  _my_ saviour."

"Hardly that," Athos said modestly.

"So, how did the two of you meet?" d'Artagnan asked, eager for the story.

"My father was the Head Stableman at le Fere," Philippe surprised him. "Growing up I had only sisters, whose games always seemed to comprise of dressing me in ridiculous outfits so naturally I looked elsewhere for a playmate. As the heir Athos was often busy with other responsibilities so Thomas and I, being of an age, soon became inseparable. We got ourselves into all kinds of scrapes that Athos was forever having to come and drag us out of. If we weren't almost breaking our necks racing our ponies, or half- drowning ourselves in the river, we were throwing ourselves out of the hayloft convinced we could fly."

"You forgot the sledging." Athos put in.

"The sledging was an honest mistake," Philippe protested. "It wasn't as if we planned to maroon ourselves in the middle of the frozen lake. We didn't  _know_  the sled wouldn't stop at the bottom of the hill."

"Perhaps you should have done," Athos raised a brow. "Not to mention you had been expressly forbidden to take the sled to that particular hill for precisely that reason."

"I'm assuming the ice held," Aramis observed. "Since you clearly both lived to tell the tale and there are few things more dangerous to a body that being dunked in freezing water."

"At first," Philippe grimaced. "We were almost at the shore when the ice began to crack. Fortunately Athos knew exactly what a pair of rapscallions we were and had followed us out," He looked intently at his friend. "We would both have died that day, if it wasn't for Athos."

At his words Athos' expression darkened, his surged to his feet and picking up his glass and a bottle of wine, stalked from the room.

"Maybe that weren't quite the right thing to say." Porthos offered into the resulting silence. "Given what came after."

"I just want Athos to understand that he wasn't to blame for Thomas' death," Philippe sighed as he topped up his wine glass and took a deep swallow. "He always did everything in his power to keep him safe. Thomas would have hated to see him punishing himself like this."

"We have tried to tell him." Aramis remarked.

"I'm sure. Sadly, he is too stubborn for his own good. I swear the only thing that might actually convince him was if Thomas himself spoke to him from beyond the grave," Philippe pressed his lips together, his distress clear. Rising to his feet he smiled at the young footman standing off to one side. "Cook has made twice as much as any man can eat as usual. Make sure it doesn't go to waste, will you?" He smiled at his guests. "Would you gentlemen like to adjourn to my study? There's a fire laid a decanter of good brandy."

"One of us should go after Athos." Porthos worried, as they made their way along the corridor.

"He's probably best left to himself for a while," Philippe allowed, as he opened the door to a small room, warm with light and the glow of fire. "He won't go far. I'd lay odds he's taken himself off to the stables to visit with Thomas' horse."

"Normally, I'd agree," Aramis put in. "But that head injury bears watching."

"I'll go. In case he needs someone to carry 'im back." Porthos offered.

Aramis smiled his thanks at him. They both knew that for all his size Porthos could move silently in the shadows when he chose. When he was this distracted even Athos would not know he was there unless he needed to. Porthos gave him a quick squeeze on his arm and left.

"You have Thomas' horse?" d'Artagnan asked curiously.

"I have a large number of Thomas' things here," Philippe told him. "After the funeral Athos couldn't bear to go through his belongings, but nor did he wish to dispose of them. I packed most of them up and brought them back with me. Most of them are in a chest in the attic."

"And Athos has never looked at them?" Aramis frowned, leaning on the mantle.

"I tried once," Philippe looked regretful. "About a year after Thomas' died. It was probably too soon. Athos took the key to the chest and threw it in the lake. I owe him so much I just wanted to find a way to help."

"You said earlier that he was your saviour?" d'Artagnan wondered.

"Our obligations to our parents can be a heavy burden," Philippe allowed. "Athos always was at his happiest when he had a sword in his hand. He had little taste for the trappings of nobility. Thomas would have been much better suited to the role. He became much quieter once his mother died, spending more time with his books and his music. But he rather enjoyed the theatre of court life. Athos was born to be a soldier."

"But Athos was the Vicomte, duty means everything to him," d'Artagnan protested. "Surely, he would never have walked away from his responsibilities as heir?"

"Because none of us would ever think of doing a thing like that," Aramis gave him an arch look. "Turn their back on their upbringing to follow their dream."

D'Artagnan had the grace to blush as he recalled that Aramis had disappointed his parents hopes that he would become a priest to live a soldier's life, Porthos, had walked away from his past in the court of miracles to walk his own path and he himself had picked the garrison over the farmyard long before LaBarge came into the picture. Whatever else they had suffered they had all had the luxury of being able to make their own choices.

"It's not usual for young nobles to spend some time soldiering before they are required to take up their obligations," Philippe advised d'Artagnan. "Treville was already rising in the old King's favour. He agreed to sponsor him and wrote a letter of recommendation which secured him the King's commission."

"Athos never went on campaign before he joined the Musketeers," Aramis knew that much. "But even M. le Comte would not have defied the King. Not if he valued his position at court. What happened?"

"My father died," Philippe surprised them. "Everything we had depended on his position, our income and the house we lived in. Our mother had passed years before. My sisters were young and not yet married. I was still only a school boy. We were facing ruin and disaster."

"That must have been hard." D'Artgnan sympathised.

"Athos went to his father and begged him to help us. M. le Comte had bitterly resented the way Athos had firmly transferred the love and loyalty that he thought were his by right to Treville. Now he saw a way to keep Athos firmly under his influence. He agreed to help us, allowing us to stay at le Fere and giving me a position in his stables, as long as Athos gave up any idea of soldiering and cut all ties with Treville."

"So that was it," Aramis looked pained. "I did wonder."

"He sacrificed his dream for my sake," Philippe said sadly. "Only to regain it at an even more terrible price."

* * *

Athos re-appeared just before midnight, looking as pale and spent as if he had just fought twenty men and barely lived to tell the tale, Porthos hovering at his shoulder. Aramis simply plucked the empty wine bottle out of his hand and a piece of straw out of his hair and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Wordlessly, Porthos took the other side as they helped him upstairs, d'Artagnan setting to pulling back the bed sheets and tugging off his boots.

If Athos was surprised to wake in the comfort of a soft feather bed, d'Artagnan tucked against his side, Porthos arm around his shoulders, Aramis' head resting on his chest, with one long elegant hand resting on his stomach, he did not comment. When Porthos heaped his plate at breakfast, he merely raised a tolerant brow. Aramis' rather pointed watering down of his wine was met with a dark look, but silent acquiescence, which suggested his head must be really pounding.

Then d'Artagnan and Philippe arrived, wearing identical grins and bearing a pair of long bows.

"Please," d'Artagnan begged, before Athos could even form an objection. "Philippe says there are targets in the barn."

A morning of good natured competition ensured. Aramis, of course, carried all before him. Porthos achieved a steady and respectable score. D'Artagnan showed flashes of brilliance interspersed with the occasional wild shot when he was too impetuous. Much to his own surprise Athos swiftly rediscovered the skills he had learnt as a boy. Philippe watched with a look of reminisce as he patiently corrected d'Artagnan's stance and guided his aim.

"You are still such a good brother." Philippe commented when d'Artagnan managed a particularly fine shot. "How can you ever doubt that?"

"How can  _you_  ask that of me when Thomas is dead?" Athos demanded, a little sharply.

"Thomas is dead became  _Anne_ killed him," Philippe did not back down. "And you are not to blame for that. All you ever did was love her. She lied to you. She lied to all of us, Thomas and I, even Treville, why should you have seen what we did not? The question is, will you chose to spend the rest of your life trying to block Thomas' very existence from your mind or will you love and honour his memory as he deserves?"

"This is about that dammed chest again, isn't it?" Athos did not pretend to misunderstand.

"It  _would_  do your heart good to remember some of the happy times," Aramis encouraged gently. "And we'd be honoured if you would share them with us."

"Please Athos," d'Artagnan put a hand on his mentor's shoulder. "It breaks my heart to hear you talk of Thomas with nothing but pain. If I were to die I would want you to remember all the joy we shared."

"Even if I could be persuaded," Athos sighed heavily. "Have you forgotten what happened to the only key?"

"Eh, I reckon I could help you with that," Porthos shrugged. "If you liked."

* * *

Porthos made short work of picking the large iron lock to open the chest, careful not to damage it in the progress. Taking a look at Athos' chalk white face, where he knelt, with d'Artagnan's hand gripping his shoulder, he decided to help him along a bit and opened the lid, pushing it back to its full extent.

"Oh," Athos made a small sound of recognition and moved forward, as if drawn by an irresistible force. He picked up a flat leather bound

book, secured by a small leather tie. With slightly shaking hands he undid the ties and opened the pages at random. "His sketchbook."

D'Artagnan craned his neck a little so that he could look over Athos' shoulder. Aramis and Porthos exchanged a fond look when Athos shifted, apparently without conscious thought, to let him see better.

"These are remarkable." D'Artagnan commented.

"Mmm," Athos hummed, seemingly lost in as he turned a page. "He had an eye for such things."

"Is that you?," d'Artagnan reached forward, his fingers brushing lightly against the paper, as if to try and connect with that younger version of Athos. He spoke in a tone of wonder. "You're laughing."

"Really?" Aramis beamed.

Jostling Porthos slightly for position they came to stand behind Athos, smiling broadly at the drawing of Athos, doublet unlaced and shirt open at his throat as he lay, propped on one elbow in the grass, his head tipped back slightly, his eyes bright with merriment and his teeth gleaming as he laughed.

"S'a good look on you," Porthos put his hand on Athos shoulder and squeezed firmly. "You should try it more often."

"Is that what I think it is?" Aramis peered into the chest.

Carefully, setting the sketchbook aside, Athos used both hands to reach into the chest and pull out a loosely wrapped bundle, settling it in his lap, he turned back the folds of material to reveal a fine musket. A soft smile hovering around his lips Athos ran a thumb across the exquisite mother of pearl inlay and silver filigree.

"I gave this to Thomas for his seventeenth birthday," He recalled.

"May I?" Aramis asked, in a tone of reverence, when Athos passed him the musket he turned in over gently in his hands, admiring the quality of the workmanship. "This is a beautiful piece. I don't think I have ever seen it's like."

"You wouldn't, Athos had it made especially," Philippe told him. "He spent weeks pondering every detail until it was perfect."

"The best gifts are those made with love," Aramis lovingly stroked the barrel. "You did a masterly job designing this, Athos. Thomas must have cherished it."

Athos watched him for a moment, his expression thoughtful. When Aramis passed it back to him, he held it for a moment, then as if making up his mind, offered it back to Aramis.

"Keep it."

"What?" Aramis blinked, a sudden look of joy flashing across his face, before he remembered himself and resolutely put his hands behind his back. "No, no. I wouldn't dream of it."

"You're right, it is a fine weapon. It seems a pity for it to lie mouldering in a chest when I have another brother who would cherish it as it deserves," Athos offered it again. "It should be used. It would please me to see it at your side, helping to keep you safe."

"I think Thomas would have liked that," Philippe smiled approvingly.

"Athos," For once Aramis seemed quite lost for words he was so touched by the gesture, which only served to firm Athos' resolve that he was doing the right thing. But even as he gripped it tightly and looked down at the musket in awe at the musket he was babbling. "I would be honoured beyond measure but I simply can't. It wouldn't be right for me to be the only one to benefit from Thomas' legacy. It's not fair on the others."

"If that is your only objection," Athos declared, with a fond smile at seeing Aramis so overcome. "It is easily remedied."

Reaching into the chest now with clear purpose, he moved a few objects aside, until he found what he was looking for. With a faint him of satisfaction he pulled out a dagger. It was a sturdy weapon, with a strong blade and a finely honed edge. But the black leather sheath, decorated with silver studs and an embossed pattern with the lavishly decorated handle spoke of richness and added a little touch of the flamboyant.

"I told Thomas that a dagger needed merely to serve a purpose," The look Athos gave Porthos as he offered the dagger was endearingly shy. "But he chose to look for the beauty in everything. Not to mention there was just a touch of the showman about him. Not unlike another of my brothers."

"He was clearly a man of fine taste," Porthos gave Athos a soft smile. Anything that would encourage his brother to let go of a little of his pain was a good thing in his book. He made sure that he covered Athos' hands with his own and squeezed firmly as he accepted the gift. "I'll be right proud to wear it."

"Good," Athos nodded firmly even as he swallowed hard, his eyes shining with all his love and gratitude for the support of his brothers. He took a moment to visibly gather himself, before looking at his newest and youngest brother.

"Now, for d'Artagnan."

"If I may, there is nothing I would like more than that drawing of you laughing," d'Artagnan asked with a lop-sided smile. "I hope one day I might be a good enough brother to bring that kind of joy into your life."

"Is that what you all think?" Athos looked a little startled. "That you can't make me happy?"

"We know you love us, Athos," Aramis was quick to reassure. "We are proud to be your friends and brothers and honoured that you would have the courage to let us into your life."

"After everything that happen' it stands to reason, you ain't the same like you used to be," Porthos said. "It takes the heart time to heal after a wound like that. We ain't going anywhere. But we just want you to give yourself a chance at a brighter future."

"I am happy," Athos said, in a tone of slight surprise, almost as if it was a revelation to him too. "In the main part."

"We'll just keep workin' on that other part then." Porthos said stoutly.

"Be that as it may," Athos looked at d'Artagnan. "There is something I particularly want to give to you."

Reaching into the chest, Athos dug down on one side until he produced a small wooden box, with squares of dark and light covering the sides. It opened up to make a flat board and reveal a set of chess pieces hidden inside. D'Artagnan smiled at the sight of it, this was no ornate marble or silver set, designed to sit in state in library or study. Each figure was intricately carved, the knights with flowing manes and the castles with neat crenulations. But it was small and sturdy, designed to be carried in a pocket or saddlebag and set up at a moment's notice, the wooden polished with frequent use.

"This belonged to Thomas?" He asked.

"No," Athos coloured slightly. "Thomas had little interest in things tactics and strategy. This set was actually mine. I was hoping you might like to learn to play?"

"I think that was his most prized possession growing up," Phillippe spoke up. "He would carry it everywhere with him."

"How very like our dear Athos to have a chess set, instead of a wooden sword or a stuffed horse," Aramis smiled at the awestruck look on d'Artagnan's face as he picked up one of the pieces. "No wonder he is such a master tactician."

"I had real swords and real horses," Athos observed dryly. "They served me perfectly well."

"What about you?" d'Artagnan looked at Philippe, revealing that depth of compassion that his brothers so admired in him. "Do you have something special to remember Thomas by?"

"I do indeed," Philippe's smile was fond. "The piano in the drawing room was Thomas' pride and joy. Athos here had lessons but he had little patience for it. As children Thomas and I would sit side by side and he would teach me the scales and then the easier pieces until I was quite proficient. Every time I settle down to play I feel his spirt beside me."

"Thomas always had a musician's hands." Athos smiled.

Between them they sorted through some of the other items. A few Athos chose to keep. Some things they decided could be donated to the Church.

"What's this?" Porthos was holding a fine velvet doublet in a dark, midnight, blue, with a frown on his face as he checked the pockets. "There's something in here."

Pulling his hand out they all looked at the thin sheet of paper, slightly yellowed now with age, folded in two and sealed with a circle of wax.

"It's a letter." Aramis plucked it out of Porthos' hands, looking at the flowing hand. He looked at Athos. "It's addressed to you."

"That's Thomas' handwriting." Philippe sat up a little straighter.

"It is?" Athos stiffened.

"It is?" Aramis straightened.

"He left you a letter?" d'Artgnan blurted. "What does it say?"


	27. Into the Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "D'Artagnan, I am not going to shoot at you," Athos said flatly. "And especially not after I have been drinking, do you know how easily something like that could go badly wrong?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we have the penultimate chapter. As I have said in response to some reviews Thomas' letter seemed like an excellent plot device when I first thought of it - because he is probably the only person Athos would truly listen to if he is ever to come to terms with his death. But then I realised I actually had to write it! I hope this chapter addresses a few key issues. Finale coming soon.

The room stilled as everyone looked at Athos. He looked as pale as a ghost. The hand which reached out to take the letter was visibly shaking. Drawing it close to him, he stared down at his name written in Thomas' flowing script as if mesmerised for a long moment, before turning it over to break the seal.

"Hold on, just a sec," Porthos moved to stay his hand, not surprised to feel the flesh under his own had turned clammy after such a great shock. He had to resist the urge to stop and rub some warmth and comfort into those chilled bones. "Are you sure you want to do this? Mebbe, you should take a bit of time to think things through, or even sleep on it, eh?"

"It's been five years already," d'Artagnan looked genuinely perplexed. "Why would he want to wait any longer?"

"Because once you go doing something you can't go putting the genie back in the bottle," Porthos pointed out.

"What does that even mean?" d'Artagnan frowned.

"He means, I might not like what I find," Athos looked at his brother. "I take your point. Although, I can hardly imagine that it could be worse that any of the scenarios I have tortured myself with these past years."

"There is another possibility," Aramis scrunched up his face a little. "There's no telling when Thomas actually wrote this. It might be something entirely mundane. I would hate to see you get your hopes up only to have them so cruelly dashed."

"Would you like some privacy?" Philippe offered, moving to stand.

"No," Athos' head came up, his eyes a little wild. "Do stay."

"We have no intention of leaving you alone," Aramis said soothingly, moving to sit down next to Athos. Picking up the hand that was lying in his lap and lacing their fingers together, he squeezed lightly. "Not now and not ever."

On his other side, d'Artagnan scooted a bit closer, putting a hand on Athos' thigh and gripping tightly.

"What he said."

Porthos moved quietly to put his hand on Philippe's shoulder, offering Thomas' oldest friend his steady support. Athos gave him a brief nod of gratitude for his thoughtfulness. Then he scrubbed a hand over his own face as he looked at the letter again.

"I have faced down armies, this should not be so hard." He looked at Aramis in a wordless plea.

Aramis gave his hand one last squeeze before he released it, taking a little comfort of his own from their physical closeness. He didn't need to ask what Athos required of him. He just knew. So, like a surgeon lancing a wound, he didn't linger as he deftly broke the seal and carefully unfolded the paper, his sharp eyes quickly skimming the contents to be sure this was actually something Athos  _needed_  to hear.

Then he began to read.

_My dearest brother,_

_I am writing this in case our paths do not cross. I know how you would worry to return home to la Fere and find me absent. You have been brother, friend, mentor and protector to me all our lives. Our mother died when I was so young and our father was, at best, a distant figure. It is your guidance which has moulded me into the man I have become, a man I am proud to be. It is now my privilege to prove as steadfast in my love and loyalty to you as you have always been towards me._

_You know how fond I have become of Anne. From those very first days she has been the sister I never had. It has made my heart glad to see the joy that she has brought into your life. But I fear that I have uncovered some particulars about her that merit further investigation. My dear brother, please understand that it would break my heart to ruin your happiness without due cause, so I am undertaking a short journey to get to the truth of matter._

_I will explain all on my return. In my absence, please have a care for your own safety. I do not doubt your ability to defeat all comers in battle. But I know your tender heart. Anne may not be all she seems and any betrayal on her part would destroy you. I am no longer a child and I cannot stand by and do nothing if it is in my power protect you. I would rather die than see any harm come to you. My sole wish is to ensure your continued happiness which I value above all other things._

_Your most devoted brother._

_Thomas_

For a long moment afterwards, no-one spoke. Philippe's muffled sobs could be heard, even with his face buried in Porthos' neck, as he musketeer patted his back gently. D'Artagnan sniffed loudly as he swiped his sleeve across his face, Athos sat utterly motionless as his tears flowed silently. Having needed to hold himself together so he could read aloud Aramis now pinched his nose, taking a moment to compose himself, forcing his tears back into their ducts.

"Well, that's you told." He managed.

Philippe raised his tear stained face to stare at Aramis in shocked disbelief. Porthos glared darkly at him from across the room, d'Artagnan reached behind Athos to give him a none too gentle punch on the arm.

But Athos gave a choked sort of sound that might  _almost_  have been a laugh.

"I do believe it might be." He managed.

"He loved you. You had taught him how to be a good and honourable man," D'Artagnan said. He gave a little shrug. "You can hardly blame him for wanting to make you proud."

Athos gave him such a fond and  _knowing_ look that d'Artagnan could not help his blush, but he continued to meet Athos' eyes with quiet determination. They both knew that he could as easily be talking about himself as Thomas de le Fere. Taking pity on the young Gascon Athos patted his shoulder fondly.

"All these years I have blamed myself for not protecting my little brother. But whether it was learning to ride, to fight, or merely to remember which was the right fork to use at dinner," Athos tipped his head meaningfully at d'Artagnan. "Thomas always worked hard to earn my respect. It seems I may have done him something of a disservice by not also remembering that he was a fine young man in his own right."

"I know that he would have been proud beyond measure to hear you say so." Philippe mustered a smile. "Please tell me that you also heard the part where he wanted, above all else, for you to be happy?"

"We  _all_  heard," Aramis, put his hand on Athos' back, its familiar warmth an unlooked for comfort, and a not so subtle reminder that Athos' welfare was not merely his own business. "And we will see that he is frequently reminded, daily if necessary."

"I have no doubt of it," Athos gave him a smile, which although impossibly weary, was lit with genuine affection. "Although," His expression darkened somewhat as he looked at his brother musketeers and they all knew that he was thinking of Anne and her crimes in the name of the Cardinal. "There is one final piece of business we must take care of first."

"Be that as it may I think you have done enough for today," Aramis rose to his feet and offered Athos a hand up. "Nap time for you, my friend."

* * *

"Is he alright?" d'Artagnan stopped dead.

He had strode into the drawing room, flushed and invigorated from his ride with Philippe, feeling far more at home in this house than he could have possibly imagined on his arrival, rather helped along by Philippe's kind and open nature. He had been honoured beyond words to be invited to ride Thomas' horse Fidget.

" _Although, don't get too attached," Philippe had advised. "He's a fine gentleman's hack. But he's no mount for a Musketeer."_

Then there was their complete agreement that there was really no need at all to tell Athos that they had got a  _little_ too reckless in their racing.

The sight of Athos, silent and unmoving, as he lay stretched out on the sofa, his head pillowed in Aramis lap, as the other man gently massaged his bruises with long, elegant fingers with a distinct frown, made d'Artagnan's blood run cold.

"He will be," Porthos got up from a nearby armchair to put another log on the fire as the evening chill began to draw in. "He just needs a real good rest and a right good feed."

"I'll sit with him for a while if you like?" d'Artagnan offered. Knowing Aramis he mostly likely hadn't moved since Athos had fallen asleep. "Give you a chance to organise some supper?"

"I do also have another rather pressing need," Aramis grinned at him. "Come over here, I'd like to disturb him as little as possible."

Between them they managed things so that Aramis could slip out and d'Artagnan take his place without waking him. Looking down at Athos' pale features, he instinctively began to stroke his hand over his curls. Then he remembered what Aramis had been doing and looked up in concern.

"Do I need to?" He wriggled the fingers of his other hand in illustration.

"No," Aramis gave him an impossibly fond look. "You're doing just fine."

Left alone with Athos he felt a quiet pride that Aramis and Porthos would so completely trust him with their brother in arms. He knew that these three men had shared dangers and difficulties that he could thus far only imagine. He might dwell too much on his own mistakes. But he also knew that in a few short months, he had proved his worth, earned his pauldron and saved each of their lives on more than one occasion.

"D'Artagnan?"

"You're awake," He smiled down at the blue eyes blinking up at him. "Do you need anything?"

"Help me to sit up."

D'Artagnan wasn't entirely sure that Aramis would approve. But he also knew that Athos would make the attempt, with or without his assistance and he wasn't about to leave him to struggle alone. So, he carefully supported him until he was sitting upright, slightly alarmed when Athos immediately leant forward and placed his head in his hands. Standing up he poured some liquid into a glass and passed it to Athos, who drank deeply, only to look up with a scowl.

"This wine is watered."

"It's better for you." D'Artagnan said stubbornly. "Do you think I can't see how much your head is already hurting?"

Athos favoured him with a dark glower, but said nothing, which elicited a slightly smug smile from the Gascon. The door then opened as Aramis and Porthos chose that moment to return, bearing trays heaped with bowls of a rich beef and red wine stew and hot apple pastries.

"Philippe sends his apologies," Aramis announced. "One of his mares is foaling and he naturally wishes to be in attendance. "But as you can see he has arrange for his cook to produce some of Athos favourites to tempt the patient."

"I am hardly an invalid." Athos huffed.

"Does Philippe need any help?" d'Artagnan offered.

"No," Aramis shook his head. "I already offered my services, but he assured me that he and his men had matters all in hand. And that we should simply make ourselves at home."

D'Artagnan and Athos lounged on the sofa, Porthos took back the armchair, Aramis alternated between lounging on the rug in front of the fire and hopping up to supply his friends with food and drink. Given the events of the day it was perhaps inevitable that their talk turned towards the spectre of Milady de Winter.

"It was only once I met Constance, that I realised that what was between Milady and I wasn't love at all," d'Artagnan confessed. "There was a certain  _connection_ , perhaps because I was useful to her, but more I think because I reminded her of someone she still held close to her heart."

"Oh?" Athos gaze was neither censorious nor encouraging.

D'Artagnan deliberately bit down on his small surge of irritation, sure that the man knew  _exactly_  what he was trying to say. But Athos would never listen to his plan if he was to let his emotions run away with him.

"I think the fact that I reminded her of you when you were younger was the only thing which kept me alive."

"Then I am glad of it," Athos vowed sincerely, his eyes warm with pride that the Gascon had kept his little flare of temper in check. "But I do not see how that will help us here?"

"Because," D'Artagnan met his gaze squarely. "Her feelings for you are also her greatest weakness."

"She wants him dead," Aramis pointed out. "That is hardly the sort of thing we wish to go about encouraging."

"Isn't it?" d'Aragnan tipped his head on one side in mild challenge. "What if we manufactured some sort of argument between Athos and I? If Milady believed that we are at odds over her affections, she might be more frank about her intentions. After all she has already tried more than once to lure me into the Cardinal's service."

"She will never believe that you would betray us." Athos dismissed that idea out of hand. "You are far too honourable for that."

D'Artagnan could not help but feel warmed by Athos' implicit faith in him in him and his good character. But it also served to firm his resolve that he needed to step and prove himself if he was ever to feel worthy of his place, not merely as a musketeer, but among his brothers.  _"Most new recruits would not attempt to model themselves against the very finest men in the regiment."_ Treville had said. But for d'Artagnan nothing less would do. These men had taught him, trained him, selflessly sharing their knowledge and experience to make him the best musketeer he could become.

It was time to show them how much he had learnt.

"Not if she thinks you have all washed your hands of me. If we were to quarrel, she would expect everyone to take Athos' side," d'Artagnan pointed out. "Treville included. My future in the Regiment would be in doubt."

"You think we would be so quick to disown you?" Aramis looked positively offended.

"Ain't like none of us have never made a mistake," Porthos pointed out, with a scowl. "Did you forget the part where we told you we have forgiven each other all manner of hurts?"

"Although, d'Artagnan makes a fair point," Athos murmured an old pain lurking in his eyes. "Anne would not necessarily think of that. Loyalty is not a concept she has a great deal of experience with."

"So, I was thinking perhaps we could stage some kind of public duel," d'Artagnan surged on, encouraged that Athos was at least listening to his plan. "Not swords, of course. Milady's eyes and ears are everywhere and no-one who has ever seen us spar together would believe I could best you. But muskets haven't exactly been my finest hour," d'Artagnan gave the room a rueful smile. "And if Athos was perhaps a little drunk no one would question if his aim went slightly astray."

"D'Artagnan, I am  _not_ going to shoot at you," Athos said flatly. "And especially not after I have been drinking, do you know how easily something like that could go badly wrong?"

"It would only need to be a slight graze," d'Artagnan firmly pushed down his desire to just shrug off the danger, knowing that would not help his case. "A shot to the arm, perhaps?"

"The same arm that you use to wield a sword?" Athos pointed out acerbically. "No. Absolutely not."

"So, shoot me in my other arm," D'Artagnan offered calmly. "There only needs to be a small show of blood for it to be convincing."

"When you are a Musketeer  _both_  arms are your sword arm," Athos reminded. "Do you have any idea how much damage a musket ball through your arm can do? It can tear away pieces of muscle so that you lack the strength to raise a blade. It can shatter the bone so that the best of surgeons cannot repair it and it has to be amputated. Many a fine musketeer has found his career so ended."

"I trust your aim." D'Artagnan said simply.

"And are you forgetting the part of your plan that requires 'im to be deep in his cups?" Porthos fretted.

"Or everything I have taught you about how easily a pistol might misfire?" Aramis frowned. "Even in the most skilled hands mistakes can happen."

"You shot Athos," D'Artagnan reminded him levelly. He looked at Porthos. "And you pushed him off a cliff. Anything could have happened. "

"See what happens when we try to make him feel better?" Aramis tipped his head at Porthos, although his eyes shone with respect. "He uses our own words against us."

"Too clever for his own good," Porthos huffed fondly.

D'Artagnan looked at Athos. He was encouraged to have won over his friends but he knew his mentor was the one that he really had to convince. He summoned his most earnest expression.

"You said yourself the only way we could succeed was if Milady believed that she had the upper hand. With you and I at odds she will think me vulnerable and easy to turn against you."

"No," Athos said flatly. "It is too dangerous. I have already lost one little brother to that woman. I do not intend to give her this victory also."

"Nor do I, I have no intention of letting her win," d'Artagnan insisted, his frustration finally coming to the fore. "And if you were thinking clearly you would realise that this is our best chance to defeat her."

"Are you questioning my judgement?" Athos said stiffly.

"Head over heart, remember?" d'Artagnan said pointedly. "Aramis was right. You are a hypocrite. You are not the only one who has suffered at her hands."

"You equate some meaningless infatuation with the murder of my brother?" Athos said coldly.

"Have you forgotten?" d'Artagnan surged to his feet, looking down at Athos with such fury that Aramis and Porthos exchanged a look of concern. "The same plan, orchestrated by  _her_  hand, which put you before a firing squad, killed my father!"

Still seething with anger, d'Artagnan did not see the way Athos' eyes widened with shock at his words.

"And before you dismiss my plan out of hand," He continued hotly. "Perhaps you would be kind enough to remember that I am  _not_  your little brother. I am a King's musketeer or will you expect me to stay cooling my heels in the Garrison the next time you are called to fight?"

Blinking back tears of hurt and frustration, he turned on his heel and fled.

* * *

D'Artagnan found himself in the stables, before he remembered that his beloved mare, who had been his confident through all the trials and tribulations of his journey to become a Musketeer, was not there. Clenching his fists at his side he looked skyward as he desperately tried to blink back his tears. The horse he had borrowed from the Garrison for the journey gave him a disinterested look and then turned back to eating its hay. On its left though, Athos' horse turned his big dark eyes towards him and came forward, snuffling his velvet nose into d'Artagnan's pockets, so that he forced out a laugh and brought his hands up to pet him.

"You are out of luck if you think I have any apple slices," He told him fondly, scratching the place between his eyes that he knew made him close his eyes in bliss. On the road they divided up the duties as most convenient, so d'Artagnan had spent almost as much time tending to Roger as his own mare since he had thrown in his lot with the Musketeers. "How about I give you a nice brushing instead, you like that, don't you?"

The familiar action of sweeping the brush across the horse's neck and back, feeling the solid muscle and living warmth beneath the glossy black coat helped to settle his emotions. Roger didn't really need grooming, Athos always ensured that his faithful mount was meticulously well cared for, but that didn't mean that he didn't enjoy the attention, arching his neck and leaning into his touch. It was only when D'Artagnan finally stepped back that he realised Athos was watching him.

"How long have you been there?" He asked, half-turning away, feeling a little flustered that he had not noticed.

"Long enough to see that arm is still bothering you," Athos replied. "You had better not let Aramis catch you exercising it like that. He'll have you in a sling before you can blink."

"You're not going to tell him?" d'Artgnan threw Athos a sideways look. His mentor was usually very strict about disclosing any infirmity.

"I'm supposed to be sleeping," Athos shrugged. "If I told him, I would have to explain to him what I was doing out here, in defiance of his specific instructions to get some rest."

"You snuck out?" d'Artagnan gave a small grin. "Isn't that a bit .."

"Hypocritical?" Athos offered blandly.

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan winced. He had belatedly remembered Porthos' consternation when Aramis had made a similar accusation and was painfully aware that his words might have cut more deeply than he realised. "I shouldn't have said that. I didn't mean it."

"In my experience it is those we care for the most who can rouse us to the greatest fury. But I should not have lost sight of your suffering."

"You have had a lot on your mind," d'Artagnan excused him. "I should have been more understanding."

"Nor should I have dismissed your idea out of hand," Athos surprised him. "Your plan has merit. Nothing we do as Musketeers is entirely without risk. Please understand, it was not a reflection of my faith in your abilities. It was simply because .. it was  _Anne_."

"I can understand that," d'Artagnan swallowed hard. "I rather imagine it has something to do with love."

"Anne accused Thomas of being a hypocrite when she killed him," Athos looked down. "In a way she was right. From the first he treated Philippe like an equal despite the difference in their status. Also, he worked hard to give the children of our tenants opportunities to better themselves. And yet when he discovered her background, he was determined to unmask her."

"She wasn't just poor, she was a criminal," d'Artagnan reminded him. "She was also a thief and a liar."

"And you think Porthos, never stole anything, or told a single untruth, before he became a Musketeer?" Athos enquired mildly. "Desperate times can call for desperate measures."

"I'd bet he never stole anything from anyone who couldn't afford it, or set out to deliberately hurt anyone weaker than him," d'Artagnan said astutely. "You would not be his friend if that was the case."

"It is true Porthos has more integrity and a kinder heart than many of those who thrive on the gossip and intrigue of the King's court," Athos dipped his head in acknowledgement. "His success is rooted in hard work and admirable determination. I merely meant to illustrate that not everyone, least of all a young woman alone always has the luxury of choice."

"You do know that you did not make her what she is, don't you?" d'Artagnan stated. When Athos' eyes slid away he sighed. "Athos, my friend she determined her own path long before she met you. As a nun a woman of her wit and intelligence could have achieved both power and an outlet for her intellect, far greater than she could achieve as any man's wife. As an oblate there were opportunities to leave the convent if she preferred to live a secular life. Many girls far less resourceful than her have made their way in the world. Instead she chose to flatter and seduce her way to power. And when that failed she made the decision to kill rather than seek pardon and look for mercy."

"You are right, of course," Athos hung his head. "I was a fool to think that I was anything other to her than a means for self-aggrandisement."

"Athos, that is  _not_ what I meant," On an impulse he put his arms around his friend and gave him a swift hug. "You a good man, perhaps the first to ever show her true kindness, I have no doubt that she loved you for that, at least, as much as it was in her power to do so."

"What do you mean?" Athos frowned.

"When a heart has been badly hurt it takes real courage to let love in once again," d'Artagnan gave a little shrug. "I don't think she is as brave as you are. Despite everything you still have a deep capacity for friendship and you have brothers who love you. I don't think she has a true friend in the world."

"That reminds me," Athos reached into his jacket. "I came to bring you this. I hope the repairs meet with your approval."

D'Artagnan's eyes widened as he recognised his Pauldron. The slice across the shoulder where the musket ball had cut across had been almost invisibly patched. The straps that Aramis had cut away had been replaced and carefully re-stitched.

"The marks are still clear to see if you look closely enough," Athos said, a little awkwardly. "We considered making you a new one. But receiving your commission is a significant achievement. None of us would willingly choose to give that Pauldron up."

Something about his tone sparked d'Artagnan's curiosity.

"Do you still have your original version?"

"Regretfully, no," Athos shook his head. "But given that I sacrificed it in the course of saving Porthos' life, the one he made me to replace it, is equally valued."

D'Artagnan ran his thumb across the leather, but made no move to put it back on. He looked up at Athos.

"You said my plan has merit?"

"Indeed," Athos plucked the pauldon out of his hands and slid it up his arm as he continued to speak. "It requires some refinement. Anne will not be easy to fool. Aramis and Porthos will need to play their parts. The scenario itself must be carefully worked out in advance. But the bare bones of the idea are quite likely our best chance of entrapping her."

"Is that a yes?" d'Artagnan pressed.

"It would seem so." Athos gave him a long suffering look.

D'Artagnan felt a swell of relief and pride. He knew that Athos would not have taken such a decision lightly. It meant the world to him that he was prepared to put his personal reservations aside and put his faith in protégé's idea. Taking a deep breath he turned to face Athos, and drew himself up to his full height and he spoke with heartfelt sincerity.

"Thank you."

He waited for Athos' slight nod of acknowledgement, before giving a bright grin.

"Although, anything more than five stitches and I am going to take it  _very_  personally."

* * *

The following morning Philippe proudly introduced them to his new, wobbly legged, bay colt. After they had all offered their congratulations and the new arrival had been settled with his dam, Philippe had turned his attention to the other business which had drawn them here.

"Now, the horses I raise for the King's regiments are all trained to face combat, they have been taught to be accustomed to musket fire, exposed to general hazards, such as rowdy assemblies, naked flames and unexpected noises. Any of these four would serve you well, d'Artagnan. What we need to do now is discover which is the best match for you."

"They are all fine beasts," d'Artagnan instinctively patted a nearby neck. He had not expected to be faced with such fine bloodlines. These horses were fit for Royalty itself. "Um, I am not sure that I can quite afford .."

"As I understand things," Philippe spoke kindly. "The mare that you raised from a foal, despite not being trained for battle, ran her heart out under musket fire to save our dear Athos' life. To me that is worth more than any riches. Athos certainly knows better than to cause insult by expecting me to take  _his_  money. If you will do me a similar courtesy than I will be glad to call you brother also."

"I would be honoured," d'Artagnan gave a small bow. "And grateful, the best of men is made better for having brothers he can count on."

"Well said." Porthos commended.

"Our little Gascon has come quite some way from the hot headed firebrand who charged into the Garrison courtyard challenging Athos to a duel," Aramis said smugly. "I would like to think I had a hand in that."

"Get away with you," Porthos butted his shoulder fondly. "We all 'ad a hand in that. But mebbe Athos most of all."

"I rather think d'Artagnan deserves  _some_  of the credit." Athos reminded them, giving his protégé a warm smile, which made d'Artagnan glow. "He has not only equalled but exceeded all our expectations."

D'Artagnan tried out all four of the horses Philippe had selected for him, putting each one through its paces, under the watching eyes of his brother Musketeers, who chipped in with a selection of both helpful and sometimes humorous advice. As he dismounted the final horse he turned and looked at four expectant faces.

"They are all fine beasts." He hedged, knowing his own preference, would be for the black but reluctant to make a choice it case it caused offence.

"You should have the black," Philippe said firmly. "You were most in tune with him and he anticipated your movements. His name is Zad."

"Zad?" d'Artagnan wrinkled his brow. "I mean, yes. He is a very fine horse. Thank you for talking the time to train him so well."

"Would it help to know that the horse that chose you is a half-sibling to Athos' own?" Philippe gave him an amused look. "Roger has a different dam but the same sire."

"Really?" A pleased look flashed across d'Artagnan's face at the thought. But then he frowned again. "But seriously,  _Zad_?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise that it's d'Art's old horse that's called Zad - and no offence to anyone or anything caled Zad - but even Google could not tell me what it actually means. If anyone knows I'd love to hear.


	28. Endgame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Athos has always worried that we would judge him for his scars," Aramis said conversationally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This almost became two chapters, but there really wasn't a point where I felt comfortable cutting it in two, so here we are. There's a fair bit of angst in this, but it all works out in the end. At one point in this I have gone with the boys' actual ages rather than any other interpretation. You'll hopefully see why.

"Aramis, if you don't stop pacing back and forth I am going to punch you." Porthos gave fair warning.

"I can't help it," Aramis huffed, even as he flopped dramatically into the bench at their usual table in the Garrison courtyard. "I can't stand all this waiting."

"Then find something to pass the time," Porthos advised a little curtly, betraying his own fraying nerves. "We can't put our plan in play until Milady shows her face. And you can't exactly blame her for laying low for a bit."

"What if she's left the city?" d'Artagnan worried.

"Nah," Porthos shook his head. Since they had returned to Paris he had done a little digging of his own, determined to protect Athos to the best of his ability. "The Cardinal ain't just her patron. He's her protector. Before she caught Richelieu's eye she was workin' with the likes of Sarazen. If she steps out from behind the Cardinal's skirts things'll get right ugly for her."

"Who is this Sarazen?" Aramis' interest was piqued.

"A right bad man," Porthos looked troubled. "More's the pity. I wouldn't wish my worst enemy at the mercy at a man like that. Much less anyone Athos ever loved."

"So, if she falls back into his company, Athos will blame himself." Aramis announced, before dropping his forehead to rest on the table and banging it none too gently against the rough wood. "Again."

"I know," Porthos reached over and tousled his hair fondly, ignoring the sharpshooter's indigent look as he lifted his face to scowl at him. "But that, my friend, is what he has us for."

"Where is he anyway?" d'Artagnan asked, looking around.

"He had some business to attend to, he should be back shortly," Aramis smiled, a little knowingly.

"Here he is now." Porthos announced.

"Gentlemen," Athos greeted them, nodding his thanks at Porthos who had poured a fourth cup of wine and nudged it towards him without being asked. "D'Artagnan, I have something that belongs to you."

"Oh?" The Gascon blinked. Then his eyes narrowed as he took in the matching grins on Aramis and Porthos' faces. "Alright, what's going on?"

"You being an idiot for one," Porthos announced, taking a slurp of his wine.

"In future, you might do better to remember our motto," Aramis looked at him over the rim of his cup. "And not try to accomplish absolutely everything by your own efforts."

"All right, now I really don't understand. What  _are_  you talking about?"

"Perhaps this might help." Athos said as he produced something from his pocket and placed it on the table.

" _Athos_."

Anything else d'Artagnan might have said stuck in his throat as he reached out and touched his father's pocket watch. Something that he had thought he would never,  _ever_ , see again.

"Porthos used his contacts to help me discover the merchant who sold it. Aramis used his charms to convince the gentlewoman who had purchased it as an anniversary gift for her husband to agree to sell it back to us. I merely provided the funds, of which I have ample."

"Don't listen to 'im," Porthos scowled at Athos. "It was his idea to track it down. He gave me enough coin to drop into random palms until I had found the answers I needed."

"And it was his courtly manners which gained us access to the gentlewoman's residence," Aramis took up the tale. "Otherwise, I do not think she would have deigned to entertain us, never mind acceded to our request."

It was only as Aramis wrapped an arm around his shoulders and tugged him close that d'Artagnan realised, that he was crying.

"Hey, hey," Suddenly Porthos was on his other side, nudging him gently with his shoulder. "You're supposed to be happy."

"I am, more than you can imagine," d'Artagnan choked out. "Thank you." He raised his head to look at Athos, his face still streaked with tears. "Thank you, thank you, so, so much."

"You're welcome," Athos met his gaze. "You are our brother, d'Artagnan. Now and for always, it is no more than you deserve."

"Even if you do have to shoot him shortly." Aramis put in cheerfully.

"Hey, don't go jokin' about that," Porthos rebuked. "That's just asking for trouble that is."

"Porthos, please," Aramis rolled his eyes. "We've rehearsed it thousands of times. Nothing is going to go wrong."

* * *

Standing over d'Artagnan's prone body as his dark red blood seeped into the dust of the market square, those words would come back to haunt Aramis. But there was little time to dwell on it. Grasping Athos by the arm it fell to him to tow the other man through the still crowded evening streets back to the Garrison. As he did so he could feel Athos trembling under his grasp, but whether from fear or fury he wasn't quite sure. As arranged he took Athos to one of the guest rooms where there was less chance of them being overheard.

"He moved," Athos railed as soon as the door was shut. "The dammed fool, he wasn't supposed to move."

Ah, fear  _and_  fury then, Aramis realised.

"I know, I know, don't worry the wound wasn't that serious," Aramis soothed. He  _really_  didn't think Athos needed to know that a few more inches to the right would have killed him. "It caught his side so it was much shallower than it might have been. Although, his shirt gave less protection than his leathers, so there was some powder burn."

"Did he pass out?" Athos' gaze narrowed.

"You know as well as I do that can come as much from the shock of things as the gravity of the wound, especially with burns," Aramis reminded, even as Athos gave a low, angry growl. "Athos, it doesn't mean anything, in itself. Treville caught him before he could hit his head and Porthos is watching over him, remember?"

Even so, it was a tense wait, with Athos refusing to eat or rest, until the door finally opened and Porthos slipped through, dropping his hat on the table and gratefully accepting the cup of wine Aramis passed him, drinking it down in one, before he wiped his hand across his mouth.

"Is he alright?" Athos demanded. "Where is he now?"

"After we made a show of leavin' him in the square, Milady called a carriage and took him to her lodgings like we hoped. I followed on until he was safely inside. Treville's already said he'll call on him in the morning like we planned."

"Then let us hope he finds him alive." Athos said morosely, as he went to stand by the window.

"Eh, now none of that," Porthos scolded not unkindly. "He will. She has every reason to trust him now he's saved her. Beside's he's too valuable to her to kill. She needs to deliver him to the Cardinal to prove her worth. And the more he goes protesting that it was all a just a mis-understanding the more she will seek to drive a wedge between us."

"One false move and she will kill him without a second thought." Athos observed darkly.

"Quite possibly," Aramis agreed, even as he took Athos by the shoulders and steered over to the bed. Pushing him down he bent to take off his boots. Beside him Porthos was already tugging the soiled shirt Athos had donned to add authenticity to his drunken state over his head. "But don't forget our feisty little Gascon has hitherto proved remarkably difficult to kill."

"Try and get some rest, yeah?" Porthos took his arm and eased him back, until his head was resting on the pillow. Athos was dimly aware of Aramis lifting up his feet and then one or other of them spreading a blanket over him before Porthos' large hand smoothed his hair. "I know you're worried about the lad, but you'll be no good to him if you're still half cut when he gets here."

Despite their best efforts Athos passed a restless night and before he knew it the sun was shining far too brightly through the window and Treville was sitting in a chair by his bedside regarding him with a face so furrowed with anxiety that Athos' chest tightened and his first thought was that something had gone terribly, dreadfully, wrong.

"D'Artagnan?" He tried to sit up.

"Alive and well enough to play his part with admirable outrage," Treville assured him, putting a hand on his chest to push him back down. "You on the other hand look like hell."

"He's barely slept. He hasn't eaten anything at all. It was all I could do to get him to take a little water." Aramis spoke up, from where he was lounging against the wall, totally unmoved by the glare Athos sent in his direction. "Perhaps you might have better luck, Captain?"

"D'Artagnan will be here shortly. By the time he arrives I want you to have eaten whatever Aramis puts before you and at least tried to rest," Treville ordered sternly before his expression softened. "You'll be no good to d'Artagnan if you worry yourself sick son."

"You heard the Captain," Aramis smiled genially, pushing himself off the wall, as soon as Treville had taken his leave. "I'll go fetch you some breakfast."

"Aramis?" Athos waited until his friend turned back around. "Orders or no orders, if you bring me gruel, you'll end up wearing it."

* * *

Standing in Treville's office later that morning, Athos supposed he should not have been surprised by d'Artagnan's announcement that the only way the Gascon could secure Milady's trust was to kill him. Anne had used every possible opportunity under the guise of her service to the Cardinal to try and bring about his end. Why should this opportunity be any different? He suddenly felt impossibly weary. He had loved her once. Part of him still did. But maybe this was no more than he deserved.

"Athos," d'Artagnan's voice, no hint of teasing now, brought him out of his reverie. He blinked to see the young man was standing right in front of him, his face creased with concern. When had he moved? "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make light of it. Can you forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive," Athos rallied. "You are not responsible for her thirst for revenge."

"You do know that we have no intention of letting any harm come to you?" Aramis stepped forward.

"He better 'ad of got his head around that after all this time," Porthos growled. "Although all this plotting to shoot one another is becoming a bad habit."

"Speaking of which?" Athos drawled.

D'Artagnan looked swiftly to his left and right as Aramis and Porthos suddenly advanced upon him.

"You didn't really think you would get away with us not checking your wound did you?" Aramis rocked back on his heels.

To d'Artagnan's immense relief a knock on the door summoned Treville away on some other piece of King's business. Picking up his hat the Captain regarded his four best men, his gaze lingering on Athos.

"Sort out the details among yourselves, just make sure none of you actually dies."

The door had hardly closed behind him before d'Artagnan found himself herded towards the Captain's chair, his jacket being eased off his shoulders and his shirt unbuttoned and pulled over his head, as Aramis deft and careful hands began unwinding the bandage around his torso.

The sound of Athos' breathe hissing through his teeth at the sight of the blood seeping through the bindings meant any protest he might have made died in his throat.

"It has been well tended," Aramis was quick to reassure them all. "There is no sign of infection."

"Shall I fetch some clean bandages?" Porthos offered.

"Better not," d'Artagnan shook his head. "If Milady decides to check the wound, it will only make her suspicious if it looks like it's been cared for. You're supposed to be mad at me, remember?"

"Oh, we're mad alright," Porthos said conversationally, as Aramis carefully redressed the wound. "You weren't supposed to move."

"Although, Porthos, my friend," Aramis looked over his shoulder, as he neatly re-wrapped it as before. "It seems you owe Athos an apology, this is a mastery shot."

"You saying Athos did shoot 'im in the side on purpose?"

"A shot to the arm would have been messy," Aramis reminded him. "There is really no way to accomplish it without some sort of bone or muscle damage, this on the other hand, he will be stiff and sore for a while and have a nice, neat, score mark along his side as a memento. But there will be no permanent damage. Isn't that right, Athos?"

"Athos?" d'Artgnan looked up at his mentor.

"I could not risk your sword arm," Athos told him. "But you weren't supposed to move. A few more inches to the right and I could have killed you."

"And if you had it would have been entirely my own fault," d'Artagnan stood up so he could look Athos in the eye. "You're not responsible if I choose to be an idiot."

"Although, if we could  _try_ to avoid that?" Aramis suggested.

Standing up he left d'Artagnan to shrug back into his shirt and jacket, walking over to Treville's cabinet he shuffled the bottles around until he found a decent red. Brandy would not do for this. They needed relatively clear heads if they were to plot Athos' demise. But he imagined he was not the only one of his brothers who felt in need of a drink. Using his knife to extract the cork, he tucked the bottle under his arm as he distributed glasses and filled them to the brim.

"Speaking of being an idiot," Porthos put in, as he leant against the window sill. "You were just supposed to act loyal and misguided, how did you go from that to becoming an apprentice assassin?"

"It's kind of personal." D'Artagnan hedged.

"More personal than murder?" Aramis enquired.

"Before you ask that," D'Artagnan looked away, knowing he was stalling but sincerely not wishing to hurt his best friend. He had spent the last hour or so going back and forth over whether or not his should say anything at all. "You might want to be sure you really want to know the answer."

"Then it concerns Anne and I." Athos was no man's fool.

"Like we hoped she was eager to recruit me to the Cardinal's service. I thought I might be able to use her desire to win me over to bring you some peace," d'Artagnan risked a glance at Athos' expression, his eyes had the same look of pain whenever his wife was discussed but he seemed outwardly calm. "I asked her what really happened between you and her."

"And what she told you has made you uncomfortable." Athos observed.

"I don't know what to think about it. She was probably lying. I shouldn't have mentioned it."

"No," Athos said as their eyes met. He could see how this knowledge, whatever it was, was eating at the younger man. "Tell me. I'm not going to judge you for anything she said."

"Thomas," d'Artagnan managed. "She told me why she killed him."

"Go on," Athos encouraged him. "Perhaps, after five years she could finally be honest with herself if nothing else."

"She said that Thomas was mad with desire for her. That he tried to force her. That she had no choice but to kill him."

For a long moment Athos said nothing at all. Then in an uncharacteristic show of utter fury he threw his wine glass against the wall so that it shattered and blood red wine dripped down the stone. D'Artagnan flinched, Porthos straightened up, Aramis took a step forward. Athos did not even appear to notice as he bent over and gripped the edges of Treville's desk so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

"Once again I must thank God that she did not kill you," Athos surprised him. "For it seems she would stop at nothing to bring you to her side, even the very worst of lies."

"I should not have told you." D'Artagnan visibly sagged.

"No," Athos caught his gaze. "Part of you would always have wondered if I just did not wish to see the truth of it. I cannot blame you. What kind of woman would fabricate such a despicable lie? No doubt she told you that I cared only to preserve my honour. But let me ask you one question?"

"Anything." D'Artagnon vowed sincerely.

"What would you say if I told you Aramis or Porthos had forced a woman?"

"I would not believe it," d'Artagnan spoke without hesitation. Both of his friends enjoyed female company but each were complete gentleman when it came to the care and consideration of the ladies they courted. He could not imagine them taking a woman, any woman against their will. "Any more than I would believe it of you." D'Artagnan felt slightly sick at how Milady had tried to manipulate his feelings. "I can't  _believe_  she would stoop to this."

"You have no need to apologise. I have told you so little about Thomas or his character. Yet Anne knew full well that  _you_ were the type of man who would not condone any woman being taken against her will. She simply strove to use that to her advantage."

"She was trying to make me feel sorry for her." D'Artagnan spoke bitterly. "And like a  _child_ I let her and then came running to you, just like she wanted."

"No," Athos gripped his arm tightly. "I'm grateful you had the courage to share this rather than letting it fester. That was my choice for too long and it did me no good."

"Then perhaps one of these days you could tell me some of the happy stories about you and Thomas," d'Artagnan suggested. "I would very much like to hear about what kind of older brother you were."

"Am I doing so badly as a brother that I need to tell you stories for you to know?" Athos pretended offence.

"I am the youngest of us all," d'Artagnan reminded him. "It's not fair. I need all the ammunition I can get."

"Well, in that case," Athos' lips quirked. "Five years of service together means I already have a multitude of embarrassing stories about Aramis and Porthos."

"Hey!" Porthos protested. "That goes both ways you know."

"Another time, perhaps," Aramis cut in. "We still have a murder to plot."

"You know you have treated me  _very_  badly," d'Artagnan threw a mock wounded look at Athos. "As a gentleman I should have the chance to defend my honour."

"You want to slap him across the face with your glove like a dandy and call for pistols at dawn?" Porthos chuckled.

"Can I?" d'Artagnan's face lit up.

"I refuse to get up at dawn," Athos told him. "If you wish to kill me then you must do it after breakfast."

* * *

In hindsight it was perhaps naive of them to think it could all be so simple. Not  _easy,_ never that, not when they had been required to fight for their lives, Constance had found herself held hostage and Athos had hovered on the brink of executing the only woman he had ever loved. But still they had won, Milady had been banished, the Cardinal warned in no uncertain terms, and each of them were still living against all the odds. It seemed like a victory.

"Athos won't tell you," Aramis advised as they celebrated. "But it's his birthday coming up."

"I'm guessing he's not a great one for parties." D'Artagnan raised a brow.

"No, it's usually all we can do to get him to have a nice meal we us," Porthos agreed. "But we like to try and buy him something special."

"Alright," d'Artagnan nodded. He knew Athos had half-feared that he would judge him for letting Milady go, after everything she had done to Constance. In truth d'Artagnan did not think he could have killed her either. This was his chance to show Athos that their brotherhood was stronger than ever. "I'm in. What did you have in mind?"

And then two things happened.

Firstly the Queen announced her pregnancy and then Athos disappeared.

"He wouldn't have just left," d'Artagnan scowled at the others, as they stood in Athos' empty lodgings, as if daring them to disagree. "Not after everything. He just wouldn't."

"We know," Porthos assured him. He cast a meaningful glance at Aramis who was staring out of the window, looking completely ashen. "He'd never want any of us to worry so badly, 'specially not at a time like this."

"Unless he had no choice," Aramis spoke hollowly. "Perhaps, this is the Cardinal's revenge."

"He wouldn't," d'Artagnan objected. "He knows we would make him pay."

"I should have told you," Aramis' head dropped until his forehead rested on the window pane. "But I knew Athos would be furious with me and rightly so. I had already taken a suicidal risk by remaining behind yesterday."

"The Queen requested your presence," d'Artagnan pointed out. "Even Athos couldn't expect you to disobey a royal command."

"He could expect me to use my wits," Aramis berated himself. "I could have claimed some kind of malady, anything to keep my distance until a less emotionally charged occasion."

"Don't tell me," Porthos stilled, then swore violently. "Aramis, you  _idiot._ Athos will punch you until you beg him to kick you."

"What?" d'Artagnan didn't follow, at least not at first. " _Please_ , don't tell me the Cardinal saw you and the Queen together?"

Aramis nodded miserably. Athos had every right to be angry with him and afraid for his own safety. But instead he had been kindness itself. He had watched Aramis' expression growing tighter and more strained, as they had ridden back to the Garrison through streets filled with revellers celebrating the news of the longed for heir. Making a decision he had taken them to a tavern a cut above their usual establishments. The host was about to turn up his nose at a group of solders, until he heard Athos' cut glass vowels and saw his plentiful coin.

Athos had paid extra for a large, private, room which at least removed Aramis from the thronging crowds all celebrating the news of a child he himself was unable to acknowledge and had the added benefit that that they could not be overheard. But the rich food that he purchased tasted like sawdust in Aramis' mouth.

" _You should eat something," Porthos had nudged. "This venison is good."_

" _Fit for a King?" Aramis had mocked. "No, thank you."_

" _Aren't you even a little bit pleased? I mean, I know the circumstances aren't ideal but .." d'Artagnan trailed off at the look on Aramis' face._

" _Should I be rejoicing in providing such a noble service for all of France?" Aramis scoffed. "By all means let us tell the King. Perhaps, he will conduct me into the Order of St Michael for my part in saving the country from strife and civil war?"_

" _Aramis, enough," Athos said not unkindly, pressing a glass of wine into his hand. "Let us make a toast."_

" _I don't want any wine," Aramis sniped, determined to be cruel. "Unlike you, I don't believe that all problems can be solved by losing yourself at the bottom of a bottle."_

" _You don't wish to raise a glass to the good health and continued welfare of your child?," Athos eyed him levelly. "In the company of your brothers who will give their lives in his service if need be?"_

" _Oh," Aramis looked suitably ashamed of himself, before offering a bashful smile. "Well, if you will insist on putting it like that."_

"He intends to pick us off one by one. Athos' taste for drink is well known. All it would take would be for his body to be discovered in ally somewhere a few hours from now." Aramis said now.

"Stop talkin' like that," Porthos scolded. "We've already had one funeral for Athos. We ain't havin' another any time soon. Now stop feelin' sorry for yourself and let's get out there are start lookin' for him."

Aramis thought his heart might stop when he found the large pool of blood in the alley.  _Too much blood_ his brain unhelpfully supplied.

"Maybe it's not his," d'Artagnan said bravely. "He would have fought. He wouldn't have gone willingly."

Just around the corner d'Artagnan stopped dead. Bending down he picked up Athos' hat from the ground, brushing a hand over it with an expression that was a mixture of anger and dismay. Aramis didn't say anything, just placed a hand comfortingly on his shoulder.

"Someone took 'im," Porthos said as he jogged up. "There are boot prints leading to a set of cart tracks over there. Three men and them boots of Athos' with a nick out the sole."

"He's walking wounded then," Aramis brightened a little. There was still the dangers of blood loss and inflection but it was better than the alternative at least. "They wanted a hostage perhaps?"

"That don't seem like the Cardinal's style," Porthos frowned. "None of this really does."

"And Milady is too smart to show her face in Paris again," d'Artagnan considered that. "At least, not until she has secured a new patron, someone who is powerful enough to protect her from us."

"Let's not go around saying that in front of Athos, hmm?" Aramis advised.

"Sarazen had a lot of people workin' for him," Porthos looked worried. "Now that's he's dead some of 'em might be frettin' about how they're going to be making ends meet. I doubt Milady bothered to settle her debts before she left Paris."

"But I was the one who killed Sarazen," d'Artagnan felt sick that he might have caused his mentor's abduction. "Why would they take it out on Athos?"

"He was the one splashing his cash at the Inn yesterday," Porthos sighed. "If anyone had been watching us, hoping for rich pickings ..."

"He might as well have painted a target on his back." Aramis finished.

* * *

"Porthos," d'Artagnan sprinted up the stairs to his friend's room. "Where are you? Treville's divided the search areas into sections. We're ready to move out. You're with me."

"I'm just comin.'" Porthos assured him, as he hastily put something in a bag.

"What are you doing?" d'Artagnan asked curiously.

Porthos momentarily paused in the act of packing a clean pair of braies and a billowing linen shirt, then he turned around to add his soft blue quilted doublet and a pair of soft leather slippers, not looking at the Gascon as he answered.

"Just a few things for Athos."

He turned back just in time to see d'Artagnan's face fall as he took in the loose fitting clothing, which wouldn't aggravate any bruises, the soft linen to sit more comfortably on top of injuries. Meeting his gaze Pothos saw his consternation turn to fury at the image of Athos suffering as he waited for rescue.

"I am going to kill them." D'Artagnan vowed.

"Yeah?," Porthos gave him a dark look. "Get in line."

In hindsight, despite all their searching, it really should not have come as a surprise to receive word that Athos had gone ahead and rescued himself, stumbling into the Garrison courtyard, almost unrecognisable after three days of captivity, wearing a range of mis-matched and ill-fitting clothing, bruised and bloody from a serious beating, but very much alive and well enough to ask after his friends right before he collapsed.

"Athos!"

D'Artagnan burst into the room, Porthos at his shoulder, to find Athos lying still and unmoving on the bed. Aramis was leaning over him dabbing carefully at his numerous injuries with a cloth.

"How bad is it?" Porthos stepped up to the bed.

"It looks worse than it is, he took a bad beating and spent the last of strength fighting his way out and making his way back here. A few of these cuts will need needlework and he'll be sore for a while, but nothing actually seems broken." Aramis reassured.

He looked up to see Porthos reaching out to place his hand gently on Athos forehead and frowning a little.

"He's a mite warm."

"He was head to toe all other filth when he got here," Aramis sighed wiping his hands. "The Lord only knows where they were keeping him. Can you help me turn him over so we can clean up his other side?"

"Course." Porthos nodded.

D'Artagnan remained pressed against the wall, his hands tucked under his armpits, a study in awkwardness, looking anywhere but at Athos as they carefully turned him. It was the first time he had seen his mentor stripped naked. The pale figure on the bed seemed both smaller and younger, more vulnerable without all that noble bearing and insignia of rank. Aramis paused a moment to stroke his hair, before picking up his cloth and continuing his ministrations, sponging off the days of caked on blood and dirt. On his other side Porthos picked up a second cloth and proceeded to help, the two of them working in tandem to care for their brother.

D'Artganan watched silently, pressing his lips together tightly and struggling against his tears, his heart feeling like it was breaking at what he had seen.

* * *

"Alright, something's bothering you," Porthos frowned at him, "Out with it."

Given the trust d'Artagnan had in his friend it wasn't especially disturbing that Porthos made this observation at the point of a sword as they traded blows back and forth across the courtyard. Porthos had dragged him outside, insisting that he wasn't doing Athos any good by just watching him sleep and that their fearless leader wouldn't want him to get sloppy. Although, Porthos' determined onslaught did make it slightly more difficult to avoid the question.

"I'm fine."

Porthos immediately put up his sword and led the younger man over to the table they habitually commandeered. Picking up a half empty bottle of wine he gave the contents a sniff and deciding they were tolerably passable poured out two glasses.

"You should know by now that don't work on us," Porthos scolded mildly. "Now are you gonna tell me or am I gonna have to tell Athos?"

"No," d'Artagnan said, a little too quickly. "You don't need to do that."

"Really, because you seem fine when you're around Athos, but the minute you're out of his sight it seems like you're sickening for something. Is your wound bothering you?"

"It's not the wound. Aramis checked it this morning. It's healing well."

"But it is something," Porthos latched onto that. "You know I'm not going to stop going on at you until you tell me."

"Do you think Athos ever misses it?" d'Artagnan said unexpectedly. "His life as the Comte de la Fere, I mean?"

"Strutting in around in lace and brocade?" Porthos chortled. "Having to make polite conversation with all those back stabbing toadies at court?"

"Well, not  _that_  part," d'Artagnan admitted, managing a small smile at the image that conjured up, although it wasn't as broad as Porthos had hoped for. And it quickly faded. "No, I mean he could have had a comfortable life. Not always in danger."

Porthos frowned as he shot the Gascon a sideways look. D'Artagnan looked lost in his own thoughts, lines of worry and concern creasing his young brow.

"You ain't worrying about what Sarazen's men did to 'im, are you?" He said kindly. "It was a bad beating, but it didn't do any serious harm. You heard Aramis, he'll be stiff and sore for a while and have a couple of new scars to add to his collection. But he's already on the mend."

"No," d'Artagnan said hollowly. "I'm not worried about that beating."

"Then what?" Porthos nudged him fondly. "You know Treville is already talking about sending us off for a spot of recuperation. We was thinkin' we could all take that trip to Gascony you were wanting to make."

"Was it a mission?" D'Artagnan blurted. "Those scars on his back."

In the manner of soldiers, Aramis and Porthos had little modesty about their bodies. During the hot summer weather d'Artagnan had become accustomed to seeing them in various states of undress, as they trained and camped and bathed or swam in any body of cool, clear, water they could find. Athos had always been rather more reserved, keeping himself covered with the long tails of his shirt. D'Artagnan had always imagined that it was either a product of his upbringing, or perhaps merely a sensible precaution given how easily his milk white skin burned in the sun. A belief that Aramis with his pots of cooling salve for the red patches on Athos' exposed skin and Porthos' jokes about lobsters had heartily endorsed.

"Ah," Porthos managed. "That kinda depends on which scars you mean."

D'Artagnan had felt his knees buckle and the bile rise in his throat as Aramis had gently turned Athos over to reveal his back. Only the fact that he was leaning against the wall, arms wrapped around himself in his worry for his friend, had saved him from embarrassing himself by keeling over. To his utter shock Athos' back was marked, not just the usual kind of wounds and sword cuts which were borne by many a Musketeer, but with numerous round white burn marks, and if that was not bad enough, underneath those lay a series of thin silver lines. Straight, thin, lines, so precisely spaced that it was impossible that they had been some random accident.

No, this had been deliberate and methodical cruelty.

"The burns?" d'Artagnan asked first.

"That was a mission," Porthos acknowledged. "A mad man named DuPont took 'im hostage. Aramis was with him. He made sure Athos had what he needed."

"And," d'Artagnan swallowed hard. He feared he already knew the answer. "The whip marks?"

Porthos bit his lip and looked away as he considered his answer. After a moment he sucked his breath in between his teeth and fixed d'Artagnan with a painfully honest look, his large eyes dark with sorrow as he admitted the truth of it.

"That weren't a mission." He admitted. "That was his father. Athos won't say a word about it, but he had nightmares sometimes when we first knew him and Aramis and I put together the rest from the things he didn't say about his family. Seems like nothing Athos ever did was good enough for Monsieur le Comte."

"His own  _father_ did that to him?" d'Artagnan felt physically sick. He knew he had been far from the perfect child, often too hot-headed and impulsive for his own good. But his various childhood punishments had been moderate and always well deserved. The thought of _Athos_ who only ever cared about protecting those he loved and doing what was right being treated such cold, unfeeling, cruelty tore at his heart. "No wonder he believes himself so unworthy of love."

"Aramis thinks he won't talk about it because he's ashamed, like if he had just been a better son his father would never have raised a hand to him."

"That sounds like Athos," d'Artagnan sighed. "But don't you think it would be better if he did talk about it?"

"You're a right one aren't you?" Porthos shook his head, before ruffling d'Artagnan's hair fondly, marvelling yet again how the youngster's good heart always seemed to override his sense of self-preservation. "Course it would. But you know our Athos, he's never one to make things easy on himself."

"Well, as you're so fond of saying," d'Artagnan grinned. "That's what he's got us for."

* * *

It was dark by the time Athos finally stirred. Blinking awake the first thing he was aware of was all his various hurts making themselves known. For a moment he felt utterly bereft. So many times in his youth he had lain hurting and alone that sometimes it was hard to suppress those memories. Then he heard Porthos' familiar snoring coming from nearby and his lips quirked in a fond smile.

"Finally," Aramis' face loomed into view in the flickering candlelight. "I thought you were never going to wake up."

"I didn't think my injuries were that grave." Athos frowned.

"He didn't mean it like that," d'Artagnan sounded amused as he came to stand behind Aramis. "He's just been waiting really, really, impatiently."

"Oh?" Athos frowned.

"You don't know what day it is, do you?"

Aramis smiled at him, as he took his arm, helping him to sit up a little, before perching on the bed beside him and fixing him with an expectant look.

"Monday?" Athos guessed.

"Wednesday," Porthos corrected drousily, scrubbing at his face, as he stirred.

"I lost  _three_ days?" Athos looked rather startled "Really?"

"Athos, my friend, you're missing the point, here," Aramis pressed gently. "It's  _Wednesday_."

"You already said that, I fail to see …?" He paused. " _Oh ._ "

"Happy Birthday, Athos," Aramis gave him a fond look. "I feared you were going to sleep right through it."

"Does this mean there's wine?" Athos said hopefully.

That broke the tension and set his friends laughing. Shaking his head ruefully Porthos went off to see what he could find in the pantry. Aramis used the interval to check Athos over and satisfy himself that he was on the mend. As Aramis lifted the back of his nightshirt Athos saw the way that d'Artagnan's eyes darkened and his gaze slid away. Presuming his friend was sickened by the ugly scars and what they represented, despite his best efforts to remain unaffected, Athos felt himself tensing under Aramis' hands.

"It's not what you think," Aramis said calmly, pressing one warm hand reassuringly to Athos' shoulder, before smoothing his nightshirt back down. "He's not repulsed."

"What?" D'Artagnan's head snapped back around, his eyes flashing. "Of course, I'm not. How could you think that of me?"

"Athos has always worried that we would judge him for his scars," Aramis said conversationally. "He does not realise that we are so proud of him and his courage for still becoming the good and honourable man that he is despite what he suffered at the hands of a father who should have loved him."

" _Aramis."_ Athos looked mortified.

"Maybe, we should talk about this when Athos is feeling better." D'Artagnan suggested.

"No," Aramis said kindly, but firmly. He knew that he was rather taking advantage of Athos in his weakened state, but he felt it was past time to deal with this. "Porthos and I have ignored this for far too long, in an attempt to spare Athos' feelings. It has taken recent events to make us realise that by not addressing it all we have done is re-enforce his belief that he is un-deserving of love."

"As the Comte de la Fere I think we can agree I have been something of a disappointment." Athos observed tonelessly.

"You pay your taxes, which keeps the Exchequer happy, your Valet ensures that you are kept appraised of anything your tenants need, you service to the King as a Musketeer far outweighs anything you could achieve at court. You are still young enough to marry and produce an heir." Aramis pointed out. "How is any of that a failure?"

"I have told you before, I am done with marriage."

"Ah, but perhaps marriage is not yet done with you," Aramis allowed, as he patted his leg absently.

"I do not look to father a child. I would rather die than turn into the kind of man my father was."

"There's little risk of that. I don't believe that it's obligatory that we follow in our parents example in all things," Aramis pointed out lightly. "And you have always been your own man Athos, a good man and one that I am proud to call brother."

"And me." Porthos put in as he kicked the door open with his boot and put down a tray laden with wine and food.

"And you are already a wonderful father." D'Artagnan assured him.

"Indeed?" Athos gave him a slightly odd look.

"Of course, why would you ever think you would be anything else?" d'Artagnan said firmly, not quite sure why Aramis and Porthos were smirking at him as they were. "What?"

"You said "are," Aramis' grin broadened. "You _are_ a wonderful father. Not would be."

"He did didn't he?" Porthos grinned. "And there we were thinking our little Gascon was all grown up now."

"It just slipped out," d'Artagnan protested, he refused to feel too embarrassed. This was too important for that. "Before my father died, I had begun to feel like I had outgrown the need for guidance and then he was murdered and I realised that I was wrong. I still needed someone to play that role in my life. You're not my father, Athos, but you have helped to shape the man I have become."

"Thomas said much the same thing in his letter if you recall." Aramis reminded him.

"Indeed," Athos gave them a slightly sheepish look. "I know it by rote."

"Then perhaps it's high time you started belivin' it?" Porthos challenged. "You are a good man, we love you and that's all there is to it."

* * *

Somehow Treville managed to fix things so their trip to Gascony became an official survey of the King's holdings in the district, which in practice meant they could linger as long as they liked.

"S'right pretty down here," Porthos observed, standing up in his stirrups to get a better look at the surrounding scenery. "I can see why you like it."

"You've never been to Gascony before?" d'Artagnan inquired.

"Naw, it's a long way from Paris."

"And more importantly, peaceful in the main part," Athos said. "LaBarge being the exception."

"We're only about an hour from the Farm now. It's just over that way," d'Artagnan pointed, before his expression darkened. "Or whatever is left of it."

"Are you quite sure you want to do this?" Athos asked him seriously. "It's not too late to change your mind. All the reports say that LaBarge was utterly ruthless. You may discover that all you once loved is nothing but a wisp of memories in a burnt out shell."

"That was very poetic." Aramis complemented him.

"I do have some experience in the matter." Athos allowed with a rueful smile.

The other three exchanged a look of pleased surprise. If Athos could speak of events at le Fere with such equanimity then that was progress indeed.

"Whatever I'm going to find, I need to see if anything can be salvaged," d'Artagnan decided. "I owe my father that much."

"Well, this looks like a good spot to stop for lunch." Aramis declared.

"Really?" d'Artagnan looked a little surprised. "We could easily make it to the farm if we press on."

"No," Athos added his weight to the decision. "Let's stop here. There is something else we need to do before we arrive. You and I can water the horses whilst the others make camp."

Whilst the two of them were at the river they also took the chance to refill their water skins and wash off a little of the dust from the road. Upon their return d'Artagnan stopped dead at the feast which awaited them. A selection of regional delicacies were spread out before him, a bean ragout, cold roast duck, delicate pates, fresh bread, Roquefort and all manner of charcuterie, a basket of apricots, and of course Armagnac.

"Brie?" Athos blinked, as he caught sight of the round, soft cheese. "That's not a  _Gascon_ speciality."

"We know," Porthos said cheerfully. "That's  _your_ favourite. It's a right special one too. We carried it all the way from Paris so it'll be good and ripe now. Since you've 'ad a bit of a hard time lately we figured you deserved a bit of a treat."

"There a few bottles of Anjou wine too." Aramis added.

"Gentlemen," Athos gave them a distinctly suspicious look. "This was supposed to be d'Artagnan's celebration."

"You missed out on your own birthday," Aramis pointed out unhappily. "Practically slept right through it, and there's no reason we can't celebrate two things at once."

"It's just us and some good food and drink," Porthos said soothingly. "You don't even have to think of it like a party if you don't want to."

"No," Athos said slowly. He looked at d'Aragnan with a proud smile. "We have a great deal to celebrate. By all means let us give thanks for what we have."

They sat, sprawled and lay on the grass, enjoying the warm sunshine, the good food and wine, and the simple pleasure of just being together, without being shot at, held hostage, beaten, or any of the other things that seemed to happen to them on a weekly basis.

"We forgot Athos' present." Aramis looked stricken, as he sat up.

"You forgot it," Porthos grinned. "I've got it in my pocket."

"Some food and drink?" Athos tipped his head at him. "Isn't that what you  _just_ said?"

"We just wanted to do something nice for you," d'Artagnan sat up. "We know that your locket was important to you and it's hard to let go of something you once valued, even if it was for a good reason."

"So, we hoped that this might serve to remind you that you are never alone." Aramis continued.

With a soft smile, Porthos held out a small box.

Removing his gloves, Athos carefully opened the box, nestled inside was an oval solid silver disc threaded on a robust silver chain.

"Treville chipped in to help buy the chain," Porthos told him. "But the rest of it was all us."

On one side of the disc a fleur de lys was etched in the centre and around the edge the Musketeer motto "One for all and all for one" was neatly engraved. On the reverse of the disc Athos' name was engraved prominently in the centre and then around the edge, encircling it, was the names of his brothers, Aramis, Porthos, and d'Art.

"D'Art?" Athos raised an amused brow

"D'Artagnan had too many letters," the young man made a face. "It wouldn't fit properly."

"You could have used "Charles." Athos observed.

"Or not." D'Artagnan grinned at him.

"Thank you," Athos said gruffly, gripping the necklace tightly in his palm. "It is a fine gift."

"May I?" Aramis gently took it from him and Athos bowed his head slightly to allow him to place the chain around his neck. When it was settled to Aramis' satisfaction he bent down and pressed his lips gently to Athos' temple. "Many happy returns."

"Happy Birthday, Athos," Porthos reached over and hugged him tightly, slapping him three times on the back. "And many more."

"Happy Birthday," d'Artagnan looked at him, his eyes shining with love. Leaning in to hug him he turned his head and gave him a swift kiss on the cheek. Aramis and Porthos grinned broadly as he pulled back and immediately dropped his eyes to the ground, the tips of his ears looking very pink. "So, how old are you exactly?"

"Didn't you know?" Porthos grinned broadly. "I'm the eldest, so I'm the sensible one, Aramis is the problem middle child, and Athos is our sensitive little brother. Why do you think we are always at pains to take such good care of him?"

The startled look on d'Artagnan's face was  _absolutely_  priceless.

There was a moment of silence and then the most un-expected thing happened. Athos threw back his head and laughed.

"Finally," Porthos beamed at him. "About time too."

"Long past time if you ask me," Aramis observed, as he topped up Athos' wine. "I beg you do not make us as wait as long again."

"I will do my best." Athos promised. He looked at the others and a moment of silent communication passed between them, before he looked at d'Artagnan. "There is one other matter we wish to take care of before you return home."

"We don't want there to be any doubt about where you belong." Porthos added.

"And you have more than earned this." Aramis smiled.

"Take off your glove and give me your hand." Athos instructed. D'Artagnan followed the order and offered his hand without hesitation.

"As Musketeers you understand that we share a bond of brotherhood. Over and above that, Aramis, Porthos and I have sworn our loyalty to each other in an indivisible bond between the three of us, the oath of a soldier, a brother and a friend that we will each protect and defend one another even unto death."

"We hoped you might care to join with us in that." Aramis offered, placing his hand onto of Athos'.

"No pressure, but we'll take it very personally if you say no," Porthos grinned at him, as he covered Aramis' hand with his own. "And I still say we should swear it in blood."

"That's because you're truly a pirate at heart." Aramis teased.

"Don't you think we have all shed quite enough blood recently?" Athos said dryly.

"I'll go first," Porthos decided. "D'Artagnan, it ain't how old a person is, that makes 'em a proper man. It's what's in your heart. When we first met you were a boy driven by grief and anger, you were arrogant and too hot-headed for your own good. But you have shown us courage, kindness, and a fine sense of justice. You are a fine man and my sworn brother. I willingly place my life in your hands."

"My turn," Aramis decided. "D'Artagnan, you have a sense of the dramatic which rivals my own. I will never forget the way you charged into the Garrison and challenged Athos to a duel. But you are loyal and steadfast. A man who places the welfare of those he loves above his own and who would never abandon his friends. Those are qualities I value rather highly. You are my sworn brother. I willingly place my life in your hands."

"D'Artagnan," Athos squeezed his hand gently. "At first, I was reluctant to accept you into my heart. I focused on the flaws of youth and held back from teaching you what you so obviously needed to learn. Little did I know, that you would be the one showing me how to find my way back to the man, the  _brother_ , that I used to be," He used his free hand to reach up and cup d'Artagnan's cheek. "I am so proud to call you my sworn brother. I willingly place my life in your hands."

"Your turn," Aramis nudged kindly, when d'Artagnan seemed quite unable to form any words.

"Um, I thought that I was left all alone in the world," d'Artagnan managed. "First you gave me justice, then you offered me friendship, and a sense of purpose, before I quite realised it we had become comrades," He looked up and offered them all a shy smile. "And then day by day, with each small act of kindness, every skill you taught me, every time you made me laugh, stood by me, tended my wounds, shared your bread, scolded me for being an idiot, trusted me with your secrets, held me in your arms, knocked me on my arse when I deserved it, championed me even when others doubted me, you became my family. You are all my sworn brothers and I willingly place my life in your hands." He gave a lop-sided smile. "For now and always."

They hugged fiercely and if more than one of them needed to wipe away a tear or two there was no one but their brothers to see.

"Well, that's that then," Aramis declared, as they pulled apart. "Anyone want any more wine?"

"Actually," Athos hesitated. "I thought, perhaps, I might try to cut down a little."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I can hardly believe I have actually finished this. It is quite the longest thing I had ever written and has been my constant companion for the last nine months. Huge, huge, thanks to everyone who has joined me on this journey, your thoughts, comments and conversation have been a real joy and often kept me writing when life conspired to make things difficult. I share all your hopes and excitement for season 2 and all the new stories it will inspire everyone to write.
> 
> But for now I am going to tidy the house which has been a bit neglected these past couple of days so I could get this finished for all of you. I hope it left you with some happy feels. Wishing everyone good things in 2015.


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